


Reordering the Universe

by touchstoneaf



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Adult Language, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Maybe more - Freeform, Pre-Series, Through S3, kind of a weird canon remix, normal again haunts me, not sure yet - Freeform, what makes a prophecy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:40:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 18
Words: 157,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27372823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/touchstoneaf/pseuds/touchstoneaf
Summary: The universe had a few things go wrong in it.So an order was put in for a second go, by the Powers.When a Slayer took down her first Master, in LA,when Whistler was sent in to point a vampire with a soul at a girl who had no clue what he was up to,things slid a little sideways, onto a slightly different track.What is 'normal', really?Who is prophesied?And what happens if you give the ingredients a stir before you send your dish back to the kitchen and ask for a new version of the same meal?
Relationships: Angel (BtVS)/Cordelia Chase, Daniel "Oz" Osbourne/Willow Rosenberg, Drusilla/Spike (BtVS), Spike/Buffy Summers
Comments: 30
Kudos: 84





	1. Normal?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wolf_shadoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolf_shadoe/gifts).



> Beta'd by the AMAZING wolf_shadoe the MAGNIFICENT
> 
> This one is significantly darker than anything I've written in a long while. It's been like pulling teeth to write. Oddly, the idea came to me right before the a challenge was issued at EF, which of course meant that, just like with the last challenge fic I did, it was dragged out of me almost against my will, through an odd concatenation of timing. Thus... I must apologize to all of you for what happens in here. I didn't mean to let my bad days end up in a fic that got spewed out onto these 'pages' for all to see, but I guess that kind of happens sometimes.
> 
>  **Formatting Note:** For anyone who’s never read me before, I do a weird thing. Or, at least, it’s weird nowadays. I use an old fanfic convention from long ago because I'm ancient, and we didn't used to have access to italics in the days when I used to fic. Can't break the habit now, I'm just too old and it looks weird for me without it. Character thoughts look like this in my stories: /Blah blah blah./
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** All characters property of Joss Whedon, damn his brilliant, confusing soul. And Mutant Enemy. And apparently some people at, I guess, Fox, now? (Who can even keep track anymore. I’m still half-stuck in the WB/CW/UPN confusion.) All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners, yadda and blah. (OCs if any are MINE, ALL MINE!) I am in no way associated with Joss, Mutant Enemy, UPN, Fox, or any other media franchise. I intend no infringement. I intend sexy shenanigans and JUSTICE FOR SPUFFY!
> 
>  **Pairing(s):** I mean, SPUFFY, DUH!!! Though, we start out with Sprusilla, since this begins way back before S1. Also, in this iteration, some front-and-center Cangel. In reference to my having clicked the **Underage** button, I stick to seventeen, same as the show did, for certain events, much as I despise the way it was handled in canon.
> 
>  **Rating:** Hm. I'll probably go with Adult, though it's in no way finished yet, because that's just the way I seem to roll with stuff like this. This story is definitely no picnic.
> 
>  **Dedication:** I'll have to gift this one to wolf-shadoe as well, for having the strength to read through it like the splendiferous beta she is, since I could barely reread what I wrote in the first place. Good lort, this one was tough to write!
> 
>  **Author’s Note:** So... yeah. This is incredibly dark, by my standards. Also, CW, it pulls no punches. I get REAL about helplessness and learned helplessness in this fic, so if you have issues with the idea of being trapped in situations like we saw in "Normal Again" (down to the REAL nitty-gritty of things like being drugged and in restraints, and what that does to the body and the mind), don't read. 
> 
> I guess I just... It's that time of the year, where painful storytelling and angst are a big deal. I accidentally posited a great big what-if in my head one day while driving to work, had a little series of vignettes pop into my brain to answer said question... And then a challenge showed up like a day and a half later on EF, tailor-made to require me to actually write them out. Because why not wreck my soul and all of yours in the process?
> 
> Buffy really goes through the wringer in this one before the Spuffy can happen to even remotely start to make it all better. Other people kind of have it rough in this as well, but Buffy for sure has the worst time. But then, I've felt this story needed to be told for a while. What happened to her before she came to Sunnydale just really got glossed over in "Normal Again", and that episode haunts me for that reason (among others). So, yeah. Here goes. Enter At Your Own Risk.

** Reordering the Universe **

** Pt. 1: Normal Never **

** Section 1A: Normal? **

It was the smoke inhalation that got her.

Talk about an idiotic way for a vampire-slayer to die.

***

“Sorry about it, big guy. But, you know; sometimes we strike out. I guess I was wrong. But hey. There’s always another one, right? Here. Let’s head uptown. I got the 411 on this one for you, free of charge. The new girl just got the call from on high. She’s only a couple hours to the north of here, in a little burgh called Sunnydale. We should go check her out.”

“I can’t believe… she’s gone…”

“Hey, don’t sweat it. If it’s not this one, it’s the next one, right?” Whistler readjusted his fedora, setting it back further on his head, and slapped the sagging, stoop-shouldered vampire on the back. Jeez; besouled vamps sure needed the hell of a lot of coaching. “C’mon. Let’s get a move on. It’ll be dawn in a few hours. Gotta get up there and find a place to tuck you in out of the sun.” 

***

Her lungs hurt. Her sternum ached; the worse because she couldn’t ease it by moving her arms. Which she couldn’t do because she was strapped down to a bed. And no one was _ listening  _ to her. They all walked away when she screamed it, gasped it through her dry, rent throat, from a chest made raw by smoke and CPR. Shook their heads and walked away--just _ walked away! _ \--when she demanded to know if the vampires were all dead. If everyone was okay. 

She had to know if everyone was okay. If any more people had died, if she had done her job. If...

Later, Mom and Dad came in to see her; stroked the tickly strands of hair from her forehead, since she couldn’t do it herself, calmed her panic. They tried to talk about other things, but she begged, and finally, with exchanged glances that bespoke deep concern, they informed her in short, taut phrases, that the school gym had burnt completely to the ground. That only a couple of kids, besides her, had been hurt. That no one had died… (Well, not really, since technically she had had to be resuscitated, but other than that...)

“But, the  _ vampires!” _ she gasped. “Did I get the vampires?”

“Sweetie,” Mom broke in, anxious and desperate, and touched her right fist where it was clenched in furious worry, bound to the side of the hospital bed, “there  _ are _ no vampires. There never were. You need to understand…”

“Oh, God, they’re gonna press charges…” Dad moaned, looking away at the far wall.

Mom shot him a hard look “Shut up, Hank.”

“There  _ are! You _ have to understand! They killed Merrick…”

“Baby, I need you to listen to me…”

“Lothos tried to thrall me. I  _ had _ to…”

“Honey. Buffy, I need you to  _ listen _ …” Mom’s voice sounded strained, painful.

“They’ll understand once I tell them. You can’t stop them with just some ordinary… I couldn’t stake ‘em all. There were too many. He’d made so many! It was all I could think of! They’ll understand once I tell them, right?” She stared at her mother, desperately seeking understanding. Her father…

“Maybe it’s okay if they think she’s nuts. Hell, she  _ sounds _ nuts. Maybe she  _ is _ . If she’s crazy, she might not end up in juvie, and the whole thing’ll be expunged. I wonder if we’ll have to pay for it if she’s involuntarily committed, or will the State…”

Mom slapped Dad, hard, right across the face. Buffy gaped at her parents, horrified right out of her terror-fueled babble.

Dad rose to his feet, staring at Mom, his face hard and set, with the red handprint standing out bright on his cheek. “I’m gonna go talk to the cops. See if I can get the DA to listen.  _ You _ may not care if our daughter goes to jail, but  _ I _ do.” And, turning, he stormed out of the hospital room.

He had never even once looked at Buffy.

“Mom…” Buffy breathed, stunned.

Mom turned back to face her, pale and set, and patted her hand. “It’s gonna be okay, Buffy,” she whispered, voice thready and thin. “It’s all gonna be okay…” But she didn’t sound like she believed it.

***

“Are you… sure that’s her?”

“Man, you sound disappointed. What’s wrong with her? She’s a helluva looker. Looks tough. Take-no-prisoners. From the sound of it, the new Watcher’s even kinda scared of her.” Whistler rubbed his hands together, already making plans. “Yeah. This is gonna work out fine.”

“I dunno. She just… doesn’t feel like the same kind of… I just…”

“What?” Whistler flicked his hat up off of his brows to stare up at Angel, or whatever the hell he was calling himself these days. “So, she’s not your immediate type. Maybe we can work that in our favor. Doesn’t mean we can’t help the kid out. She could probably still use a strong, silent, knowledgeable ally out there in the field, ready to drop her a few hints. You know,” he went on cagily, “being as how she’s about to walk right into your old granddaddy’s nest full of degenerates, and St. Vitus Day is on the way, or whatever the hell it is…”

“St. Vigeous,” Angel snapped back automatically, frowning thoughtfully, then shook his head, all grim-like. “Yeah, okay. I’ll drop her a few hints, see how she handles it. But you know these girls. They all tend to die quick.” He let out a long, lugubrious sigh. “Like the last one.”

Whistler slapped his back again, all encouragement. “Buck up, man. Do the job, and see what happens, huh?” /Holy fuck, you’re a wet blanket, dude./

/Jeezus Christmas on toast, this is gonna be a long ride, coaching this sorry-ass motherfucker into the role./

***

They weren’t listening. No one was  _ listening _ . She yelled and screamed it, to everyone who was there, every face that passed by her view; that she wasn’t crazy, that she just needed to go home, that she had a job to do, that she had to make sure she’d gotten them all, that…

She struggled, of course. She fought them off, stripped out of the first set of restraints. The second. And then there was a burning prick in her arm—a shot—but this was no friendly immunization, no flu shot, no… And then suddenly everything was spinning sickeningly, and her limbs, the ones she had just begun to rely upon for their wild new strength, went limp as noodles, wouldn’t respond to her commands; and then the four guys on her legs and the four on her arms were backing off, and they were dragging her upright, and why couldn’t she hold up her head?

“God, that took a lot. She’s like tranking a rhino. What the hell was she on? Take a blood sample, Craig…”

“Got it…” Another prick, on her other arm, inside, on the soft flesh of her inner elbow, while someone held the arm steady, and she turned her head slowly—oh so terribly slowly—to take in the distant mural that was someone in pale green scrubs sticking a needle into her faraway and wavering arm. It all felt terribly unimportant.

Things got kind of hazy for a while. She fuzzed back in when she heard voices near her—head? Shoulder?—talking about… something. 

“No drugs in her system, Dr. Richards. Just a really high adrenaline and cortisol count…”

“That’s impossible.”

“That’s all we found, Doctor.”

Something touched her wrist, held it up. Her arm felt floppy and weird, and chilly, and… 

She tried to move it. “That’s incredible. With the way she was able to…”

“Dr. Richards! She’s coming out of it again!”

“What?”

Buffy was frustrated. She needed to move her own body. Something was very wrong. If Merrick was there, he’d get her out, of course. But Merrick was dead. The vampires had killed him. The vampires they kept telling her didn’t exist. Lothos had…

She felt like she was talking, but no one could hear her. Couldn’t they hear her talking, telling them she had things to do? But it was like she was only talking inside her own head, and her lips weren’t moving, and if she could only…

“It’s only been about twenty minutes, that’s unbelievable! Quick, get her strapped down…”

Something slammed her wrist down onto something soft. Something was wrapped firmly around it; and they couldn’t hear her, even though now she was  _ screaming _ .

“Jonas; get the other wrist! Michael, her ankles; she’s coming out of it too fast. That’s amazing. If she doesn’t have anything else in her system, her constitution must be…”

“Got her…” 

She couldn’t move anymore, for some reason; couldn’t kick or swing or walk away, and no one could hear a single word she said, and she was crying now, tears streaming down her face, and the helplessness of it was awful, awful…

“My God, her metabolism has to be like a tiger’s. I want to get a thyroid check on her, stat… Jonas, the syringe. You know the rules. Can’t have her here restrained for more than…”

“Sure, Doc.”

The burning feeling in her inner elbow, distant and yet somehow she was starting to connect it to the terrible weakness, and she raged, raged, raged inwardly as the shot went in and everything faded out.

***

The new girl was a real corker. Kind of a stuck-up bitch, but she had what it took, for sure.

The new Watcher was gonna have his hands full, with this one. Which was a good thing, in its own way. Made it easy for Whistler and his hesitant charge to sneak in there and get their claws in her early, plant the seeds and all that. 

Oh, yeah. Whistler thought this was really gonna work out for him. /Within five, ten years, whenever this thing goes off with Twilight, she’s gonna be way groomed to do whatever we want her to do. She won’t even listen to that tweedy fuck anymore, she’ll be so used to relyin’ on our boy here. She’ll go wherever he leads./

Whistler rubbed his hands together as he watched the chick march away from the ineffectual dope trying to set himself up as her knight in shining training gear and novels. “Yeah. Yeah. This is gonna be good.”

Beside him, the big dumb yutz he’d picked to be his main fall guy for the transition between worlds just looked troubled, and picked at his lip a little as he watched the girl march off down the halls of the school, to discuss fashion or boys or whatever the fuck girls these days talked about when they weren’t being Slayers.

It was alright. Whistler would have them in line soon enough. It just took careful planning, attention to detail. /I got this./ 

***

She was… stuck down to something. Strapped to a… bed again? She could figure out that much, after a while of blinking mazily at a ceiling full of irregular holes in white panels separated by frames. The ceiling seemed to recede vaguely and return, recede, return, in waves…

She couldn’t move her arms. Her nose itched, was the thing, but she couldn’t… It felt so far away. So distant. So did her hands, and… Her feet, which she also couldn’t move, were  _ miles _ away. 

Once in a while, she twitched them, wondered when they would move again, but something heavy tugged at them. She couldn’t quite identify what. It was soft, but impossible; like the whole world was…

She had no idea how long she was like this; on something soft, but with eventual, growing discomfort making itself known; an itch here, a wrinkle under her shoulder-blade, her shirt riding up under her lower back so that she was chilly there…

And then she realized, with slow and growing dread, that she had to pee, and there was no way… Nothing she could…

It was like lifting some kind of weights on her lips to do it, but she managed a mumbled yell. “Hey! You guys! Somebody! I need help in here!”

She waited. Nothing. No one came, and… And it was getting worse. 

She was going to have to get more pointed. “I… need to go to the bathroom!”

Nothing, still, and okay, now she really needed to go, and what if no one came, what if there wasn’t anyone paying attention, what if…

“Please, I really need someone to come help me, I need to…” Her bladder was going to burst soon if someone didn’t get in here, she couldn’t even move her legs, what if no one came? She had never felt so helpless, so vulnerable. Time dragged on, and she was sweating now, her heartbeat speeding, it hurt, oh god…

And then, just when she thought she was going to wet herself, someone opened what sounded like a door and came in, and there was talking in low whispers.

“Please, please, I really need to go, I’m going to…”

Hands on her wrists, her ankles, and she was helped up. She stumbled, her legs almost buckling, and helped over to some… Oh god, some bare metal toilet sticking out of the wall, and were they going to watch? One of the people was a guy in scrubs, and…

And it didn’t matter, she had to go too bad at this point for it to matter, struggled with what felt like drawstring pants, and then one of them was helping with her fumbling, nerveless hands, and she was in very serious danger of wetting herself before she got them off—where had her underwear gone?—and then she was being lowered, and she didn’t care anymore, because the relief was so great it sent chills over her entire body.

As soon as she was done she was being maneuvered up again, assisted with her paper-thin wardrobe and half-dragged back to what looked like a low, narrow bed with… She squinted.  Lined, leather strap-things at the bottom and sides, and… “No! You’re not gonna strap be back to that thing again are you?” She started to struggle, weak but fighting as hard as she could, and they were holding her arms, and she might be weak, but she was still stronger than they were, and then someone was bursting in the door to help them, had her legs, and then someone was talking—the soft-voiced Doctor, again—trying to tell her that he didn’t have to strap her back down if she would just stop fighting everyone.

And she didn’t want to have to be strapped back down and go through all that again, but why was she here, why… “Why am I  _ here?” _ she half-yelled, half-cried, because she didn’t understand, it didn’t make any sense, none of this… /This isn’t my life, I have to be dreaming, none of this…/

“Buffy, you’re having a psychotic break. You burnt down your school and you’re having a psychotic break to deal with the reality of what you’ve done. Now, we’re going to try to help you, here, but you have to let us…”

Buffy stared at the man with the kind face, a chill running through her entire being. 

There was no way. No way in hell they were going to try to call her crazy.

/I just saved the whole damn city, and you want to call me  _ crazy? _ /

***

Cordelia couldn’t with this whole gig. For one thing, it was seriously cutting into her dancing and dating time. Like, she had just had to turn down a date with Kevin Harper. Kevin  _ Harper! _ To go wandering around in some nasty old graveyard and—get this—stab a bunch of dirty guys with sticks, so they could explode and rain dust all over her hair, her clothes, her makeup…

This whole thing really blew. 

And this… ‘Watcher’ guy? He was a serious drag. All he ever did was rant on and on about her ‘destiny’, and how she had to keep doing this, because she was the only chick in the world who could and all this other crap; like, whine, much? First of all, who friggin’ cared if these vampire things and other nasty demons ate people who weren’t her? This whole thing was infringing on her beauty sleep… and last night she’d almost twisted her ankle. Which, look. She couldn’t be pyramid girl in cheer-squad with a twisted ankle, and she was the anchorperson in that squad. Everybody looked up to her. They  _ needed _ her. She was the most athletic, sassiest, strongest girl Sunnydale High had ever seen on there; the one with the best timing…

(Which, by the way, Mr. Tweedy Watcher-Dude had just tried to take credit for; like, tscha! All, ‘Your reflexes, strength, and abilities come from the Slayer line, even as a Potential. Now that you have been Called, you need to use them for what you were destined to do… not to enslave yourself to this… secondary school cult.’ Like she was going to give up cheering, A, and B, way to take away her accomplishments and tell her it was all because of this Slayer thing. Like, she trained, every day, hard, for cheering! No way he was gonna tell her it was all just because some mystical voodoo invested her with good balance and fast reflexes and strong muscles and the chops to be the best! Hell no!)

And, like, yeah, she was tired now, a lot, trying to keep up with cheer squad, school, and this wandering around in graveyards, but to her mind that meant dump the graveyards part, because, like, she had a GPA to keep up, and why should she have to give up cheering—something she’d invested in since junior high, something she could get a scholarship for, or maybe even go into competitions and win cash prizes for if she didn’t get scholarships—just to turn randos into dust in cemeteries? Like, what were this dude’s priorities, anyway? 

Cordelia Chase had a future. She had it zeroed in, like a hawk, or one of those missiles from that Tom Cruise movie,  _ Top Gun _ . Not that she’d watched it for the missiles. /I mean c’mon. It had Tom Cruise being hot. I watched it for the sexy stuff./ She was not going to sacrifice her whole future—her GPA, her college career, for this… This dusty, idiotic… ‘slaying’ whatever. Heck, she was narrowing the gap any second for Stanford, Brown, Vassar, places like that, she was going to have her own business, maybe end up owning a modeling agency, she was going to be a tough businesswoman, she was  _ going _ places in this world! She already had no problem stepping on the people who got in her way and who were obviously losers with no drive to succeed. The world was full of them. 

The way she figured it, these vampires were probably put on this earth to thin the herd. Like, she herself would never be dumb enough to walk out there at night and get eaten; not in this town. They had all heard the rumors, right? That weird stuff happened in SunnyD at night, and it was a better deal to try to stick to well-lit places, to leave the Bronze in packs, stuff like that? Why should she care if a few losers were idiotic enough to go it alone, and walk into the teeth of some vampires, so they got taken out that way, instead? It saved her having to step over them on her way up, and it wasn’t like they were going anywhere with their lives anyway, right?

Why was it on her to save their stupid asses? 

The fewer idiots in the world, the fewer people to get in her way, she figured. /And it’s really not on me to save their butts./

And yet, here she was, wandering around another graveyard, alone no less, without even that dope of a tweedy guy out here to back her up, despite the fact he was the one who had sent her here. She should be sleeping, her hair set for tomorrow. She should be finishing that one essay. /And, heck, I should be…/

She wouldn’t be out here at all, but the guy just wouldn’t stop yapping, kept cornering her at every turn at school… Like, why did he have to be the librarian, and work there? Couldn’t they hire another idiot to do that job, so she could get a break? Could she complain to Flutie about harassment? /Now there’s an idea! Maybe I can…/

“Hello.”

She had her arm up, ready to shove the stupid piece of sharp wood into the chest that had appeared before her, before the word had finished exiting the… Hoo, boy. The hot, hard chest of the strapping creature who had just shown up in front of her. The guy in, by the way, a really nice silk-blend leisure-suit-and-slacks combo, watching her with melted-chocolate eyes and a mysterious expression, along a nice, straight nose and some seriously thick, dark hair, and, well. Color her happy all the sudden that she hadn’t bailed, because this could get interesting. “Well, hello, salty goodness. To what do I owe the pleasure in this…” She glanced around her. “Um, graveyard that I was just crossing with this, um, hunk of wood because it was a shortcut to my house, and I felt weird about it, so I armed myself with something I found laying around…” /Smooth, Cordy./

“It’s not safe out here. You’re too close to something dangerous. You should pick another shortcut tonight.” And dark, alluring eyes rose to glance over her shoulder, toward one of the larger, ivy-covered mausoleums.

“Um, okay?” Weirdo. Figured that someone that hot would be a freak. Just her luck. “And, what, you just strolled up to a random, lone woman in the cemetery to let me know I’m in danger, because…”

“Because I’m concerned.”

“Uhuh.” Shaking her head, now definitely hearing alarm-bells, Cordy made to maneuver around the newcomer. “I’ll just be on my way. Have a nice night.”

“Be careful,” tall, dark, and random called after her, into the night. “There are more things in this town to worry about than vampires.”

She was irritated enough that she got halfway to the far gate before it percolated, what he’d said. /Wait. He knows about vampires?/

She swung around, hard, to stare behind her, but of course by then rando dude was gone.

***

The doctor made a deal with her. No more being strapped to a bed all the time, totally helpless, if she’d agree to take some kind of pill and cooperate. Still mazy, still fighting to think through whatever was in the last shot, Buffy agreed, because it was the only thing she could think of. /If I’m not strapped down, I can maybe find a way out. I can maybe hide the pill under my tongue or whatever, like in the movies, and then sneak out, find Pike, get a ride back into the city from wherever the heck I am…/ She could find a payphone, beg some guy for change… No matter how bad she looked in these horrible pajamas they had her in here, she was still a blonde Cali girl. She could talk some guy out of some change. And, away from here, away from these drugs, if anyone tried to bother her because she was wandering around in the parts of town where payphones still existed, she’d just punch them. /Or, maybe I can ask to use the phone in some Subway or something, or…

It turned out that tonguing your meds was harder than it looked. For one thing, they checked for that. For another, it took a lot of tongue-action that was, like, a learned skill. It wasn’t like making out with someone—not that Buffy had done as much of that as she liked to pretend when she was sitting around with Becky and the rest of the girls, lying about her many dates. 

There was always a next time. At least she was out of the room with the bed, right? 

The problem being, the pill made things weird in a different way than the shot. She felt shaky. Her heart beat too fast, pounding in her chest like it was going to fight its way out through her ribcage. She was dizzy, and her hands trembled. Her mouth was dry, and she developed a persistent little cough. She felt mildly nauseous all the time… and her brain felt foggy, like time kept kind of sliding around, or skipping without her realizing it. Things also kind of whirled when she turned her head too fast, or stood up too quickly, and she felt just a little outside of things. Events—even, like, just sitting and watching TV—everything felt just a tad insulated. Unimportant. Vague. 

Essentially she couldn’t get on top of anything long enough to pull herself together and try to find her way out of this place. She spent too much time just… drifting.

At some point some nurse came and pulled her aside, led her down to an office, where she sat looking out of a window, vaguely aware that the one doctor was talking to her about how everything she knew was a lie. That she needed to get a handle on reality. That there were no vampires. That she had been fighting her own internal monsters, brought to life by psychosis, when she’d torched her school gym...

It was tough to cling to what she knew to be true. To avoid focusing too hard on the weirdness of his lips moving. To hang on to the words in her own head screaming the reality she knew was her only bedrock, while his declarations slithered past the structures inside her brain without sticking anywhere, bouncing around listlessly. She was so far away from all the solid things, and her emotional attachment to her experiences had been reft such a large step away from those lived events that it was like her fingers kept slipping from the remembered moments, till she had to cling to them with her fingers in her hair to keep them from sliding away. It made it tough to tell what was real; to cling to the warm darkness, to Merrick and his pronouncements, to a vampire exploding into dust in her hands, while the doctor talked, slow and measured before her in a bright, gently lit room. 

She didn’t know how to judge which thing felt more real, when her own ground felt equally unsteady, then and now. It was like each moment had been rendered equivocal to the same degree by the pill she had swallowed, and she was being continually urged to use the doctor’s calm, flat logic as a road to choose by, because everything else seemed so insane…

Except when your choices were, ‘logically, you’re psychotic’, or ‘logically, there are vampires’, which one was the more attractive reason for burning down your school and ending up in an asylum?

***

She was in the Bronze, not that she’d like to admit it but running away from that Giles guy and his incessant demands, when she saw him again. After all, it had been a really tough week, between keeping up with slaying, and almost getting cut from cheer squad because she’d been late so often to practice, which, really? She’d just saved half the girls there from some weird witch-thing with that klutz Amy Madison—or, really, she supposed, Amy’s mother, but whatever—and they wanted to cut her? She almost started on  _ fire _ for that squad!

And then there was that whole thing with that nerd Xander Harris, who literally hadn’t stopped following her around for days, since she’d saved him from that weird prelying mantis thing that had taken over Dr. Gregory’s science class (after ripping off his head, by the way, which, ew, much?) and tried to breed (double ew!) with a couple guys who would never admit in a thousand years that they were virgins (and who would ever have suspected that Blayne Moll was a virgin! Color Cordy shocked!)… and now all the sudden he was all over her, and couldn’t Harris just retreat into self-hating horror, like Blayne, instead of ignoring all her smooth stories about why and how she’d saved them and deciding to be all crushy on her?

He really needed to listen to his little nobody girlfriend, Willow Rosenberg, who had been lusting after him since practically kindergarten anyway, A, and B, in no way was ever going to make any progress with Queen C, secret identity or no. 

He needed to back off, not be hovering… /Oh God; right there across from me, here in the Bronze, being just as buggy as his friend Jesse was, before I had to stake him, ugh, just, ugh…/ The guy still had no idea what had happened to his bestie, who had just ‘disappeared’… the kid was still on a few milk cartons and the wall of the nearby Safeway and, Cordy thought, also probably the Hughes up the street from the school, and maybe Harris had reason to have lost his mind recently, but he still needed to regain his sanity and…

When she felt the air change around her, it was a palpable thing. Honestly, she could swear she got a strange tingle when he came in the room; that she practically sensed his arrival. Like the whole club almost stopped existing when he entered, because nothing else mattered but his presence, and she had to do something about it. All her senses went on high alert; smell, hearing, vision, all of them, all zeroed in on his broad-shouldered, dark-jacketed self as he came in and started looking around, like he was seeking someone in particular… and could he be looking for her?

Probably not, but why not go accost him anyway? 

He was weird, but it didn’t alter the basic fact that he was hot as hell. And anyway, she was bored, and frustrated, and could use a nice distraction.

Suiting action to thought, because Cordy was nothing if not action-girl, she pushed herself away from her arms-crossed lean against the wall where she’d been chatting with a truly irritating Harmony. Leaving her girlfriend in the dust, she headed for the intently-scanning tall, dark, and salty. “Hey there, cowboy.” She reached out, laid a bold hand on his leather-jacketed bicep. “Decided to stop hovering around the graveyards and look for play in the club, instead?”

“Oh, good; you’re here.”

She blinked at that opener. Had he really, actually been looking for her? And was she glad about that, or kind of worried? “Um, okay?” She dropped her hand, prepared a zinger in case he got even weirder and she had to tell this sailor to shove off.

“Look,” he began, turning to close with her, and all the sudden it was all just him and her and dark eyes and looming presence and why did he have to smell so good? “I just wanted to warn you. When you go out tonight…”

“Yeah, yeah,” she breathed into the strange airlessness that seemed to strike her every time they were close. “Giles told me.” And the frustrated irritation was back, the feeling of being boxed in. Everything she had fled from to come here. It found its mark on him, because how dare he come here, to her sanctuary, to remind her of her damned ‘duty’ and ‘destiny’? “I’m supposed to go find some anointed guy and stake him before he can do something truly dire to help the Master break out or whatever, and yadda yadda yawn…”

He didn’t even blink at her sarcasm. “It’s more important than you know to stop this. You ended the Harvest…”

/Oh, please./ “With  _ your _ help…” She had been so outclassed in that fight, all on her lonesome. If Angel wasn’t around to have her back she’d’ve been toast in that thing. Heck, even staking Jesse, the most total fledge on the planet, had been such an accident. The clumsy idiot had practically fallen on her stake when he’d tripped on his own feet. Still trying to hit on her, by the way, which, wow. Persistent, much? 

Like she would ever date a vamp. 

Also, she so didn’t feel bad about staking a kid she knew. Not even a little.

“I didn’t do much,” Angel waved off his contribution, looking sad-eyed.

For some reason, his attitude put her back up.. “You dusted seven vamps. That’s pretty big, even if you bailed on me before I went into the catacomb thing. You were clutch when I needed you. And you’ve been getting better since. Less hanging around on the sidelines being mysterious, and more with the useful information and the actually chipping in here and there.” She shook her head a little. “Oh, by the way; here.” And she moved to pull off his jacket; the one she’d been wearing since the whole thing with Freddy Kreuger. “I like the help with the fights. Don’t so much need the fashion assistance, though.”

He stopped her before she could completely divest herself of his property… just like the last time. “Wear it tonight when you go looking for the Anointed One?” And he tugged it back on over her shoulders.

God, it was like he was trying to get her to wear a letterman’s jacket, and she eyed him for a moment before she sighed, wondering how to handle this. “It’s really not my style, you know. And it’s not like we’re dating. I shouldn’t’ve let you talk me into keeping it.”

He just watched her for a moment, then… “Just for tonight.” And before she could protest, he was gone, vanishing into the crowd.

/Oh, man./ This was starting to get complicated.

“Oh, jeez, he is so hot,” Harmony bubbled into her ear the minute Angel disappeared.

Her easy-to-ignore prattle was overshadowed almost immediately by Xander Harris’ jealous-sounding arrival. He somehow invited himself to her side, holding a pool cue like he knew how to play, staring after Angel’s disappearing back. “Hey, who was that guy? You want me to talk to him? Mr. Neanderthal, all loomy, just showing up, and pushing his jacket on you like you invited him to…”

“Hey, Xander?” Cordy snapped witheringly, “go back to your own planet? We were talking. You know,  _ talking _ , with real  _ words _ …” Not that she really had been talking with Harmony, but she’d rather pretend to do so than put up with Xander Harris’ attempts to own her and ‘protect her’ from Angel for even one minute. Just, ugh. Who’d invited him, anyway? And, while he retreated in frustrated male whatever, Cordy turned to Harmony and half-listened to her airheaded crap for five minutes or so before admitting she had ‘cramps’ and had to leave. 

/Another night in graveyard paradise, coming right up./ 

She hadn’t meant to meet up with Giles at all. But if Angel really thought it was such a big deal, she’d do it.

***

She fought back at first. She felt like she had to; felt like she owed it to Merrick, who had died in the line of duty. To Pike, who had seen horrors beside her and had never faltered. To the kids in her school who had died before she could save them. But it happened again and again; pill after pill, strapping-down after strapping-down, if she resisted… and eventually, Buffy started to wear thin. To wear down. Like water grinding over a rock; because water could be water, and stone could be soft, if the water was an endless assault. A pounding thing, vicious; a downhill torrent. A frothing force, beating, beating like a waterfall that could pound you against every unseen rock on the way to the bottom and then turn and churn you under till you had no idea which way was up anymore and all you wanted—the only thing you wanted at all—was just one breath, just one tiny gasp of air. 

And in the end, everything, every corpuscle in her body and every cell of her bran sang to her to just let go. Just give up. Just believe what they said, because it was the thing that made the most sense. She was a victim of her adolescent brain chemistry, it happened, sorry. She was a criminal, she was insane, she’d made stuff up in her head to make sense of what she’d done. She was psychotic, she’d had a break with reality; it happened a lot to teenagers. She shouldn’t be too hard on herself, it was a problem with the teen brain when the hormones got all mixed up in the stew during this one specific, nexus moment of development between childhood and adulthood. A lot of kids at this age ended up schizophrenic, or bipolar, or depressed, or whatever… and apparently some kids just lost it and burned down their schools, and saw monsters and thought they were vampire-fighting superheroes?

It was what her parents told her, when they came. It was what Mom tried to tell her, crying a little and petting her hair, what Dad tried to tell her, while remaining a few safe steps away, like he could only love her again if she… If she got better, admitted…

And she owed it to them, right, to be what they wanted? Not what some old guy from England… Or a sometime boyfriend who probably wasn’t really even her boyfriend, but just… People who might not even have been… real? Right? Were they real? Do I owe it to them if they were never…

/No. Merrick. Merrick  _ died.  _ Lothos  _ killed _ him, and I…/ 

/I’ve got to get  _ out _ of here, because…/

/Oh God, Pike! Is Pike  _ okay? _ Did he  _ make _ it? Did…/

Another shot, another spin against the restraints, or a stay in the quiet room. And everything went back to just being a whirl of confusion of agony once more, until…

Until it was easier to just give in.

***  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
(Yeah. I know. I'm sorry. But there're just some experiences that Buffy actually went through that, if they didn't last as long in canon, still occurred in her experience, and which would have scarred and traumatized her. Experiences which informed the things she went through on the show--like being drugged by Giles for her Cruciamentum, or facing the threat that Ted made--which absolutely need to be addressed in greater depth. Thus it makes me insane that the show only barely skimmed past it until "Normal Again" (a lot of people hate that episode. I celebrate it, and the question of whether it might actually be the truth still haunts me, btw).   
  
Psych wards and mental health facilities are already tough enough places to be in on a bad day, when you need the help. To posit being in one when you don't actually need to be in there, because no one can actually accept that your reality, which sounds insane, is just outside their ken (to be subject, for instance, to antipsychotics when your brain does not need them--since in such a case they can actually cause you to enjoy symptoms of psychosis), is an absolutely _terrifying_ thought.) 


	2. Never...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! Round two of everyone being trapped in places or in roles they didn't expect, etc. 
> 
> It all gets worse before it gets better (ie, before Season 2, lol).

**Section 2A: Never...**  
  
Things just got more and more insane, until it seemed like more and more of her life was about the slaying, and there was less and less of her life allowed to be about anything else. 

She tried to kill the anointed kid. She really did. But how could she? 

She just wasn’t able to stake a little boy. Even though she’d had Angel’s warning ringing in her head, even though she’d had Giles right there exhorting her to do it, that untold misery would unfold if she didn’t; even while the kid had looked up at her with flat, poisonous eyes like a rattlesnake, she hadn’t been able to do it.

Then it seemed like the world had spun out of control. That idiot Xander got himself turned into some kind of were-hyena thing, along with Tor, Heidi, Lance, and… that other kid. Whoever. A bunch of nobodies, really, but they’d caused a bunch of trouble. They ate that stupid pig Principal Flutie brought in for a mascot… and then they ate Principal Flutie, which… what school did she even  _ go _ to? Then that Master jerk sent a trio of weird assassin guys out after her, which, rude, much? Angel helped her with those guys, which was way nice of him, even though he was kind of a weirdo and insisted on sort of hovering around her bedroom window till they got rid of all of ‘em. The freak.

Then there was some weird ex-demon-slayer puppet thing that tried to take over the school talent show, and screwed everything up when she was trying to have a moment of actual, like, shining that didn’t involve killing things in the dark where no one could see, and which might even be remotely glamorous and not involve breaking nails every night. Also, Morgan Shay was a total weirdo, but even he didn’t deserve to die that way. And that other weird-ass kid who turned out to be the actual demon brain-eater? 

Just, really; what was  _ with _ this school?

Also, there was the kid with the nightmares, all of which came true and started haunting everyone, and okay, look. Cordy liked to keep her mind in the game and remember that all this was seriously impinging on her grades, her social standing, her friendships, such as they were. That she could no longer even  _ do _ cheer squad, that people were seriously starting to wonder about her, that she was starting to feel way alone and like the only person who really understood her was a rando older guy named Angel, no last name, who just showed up sometimes out of the darkness to offer her advice, and was probably some kind of demon-slayer himself, and who knew things about the local vamps that she had no idea how he knew, but…

Unfortunately, it was kind of tough to stay focused and eyes-on-the-swiftly-slipping-prize when, by the end of that whole thing, she realized that the reason the kid was doing all this wasn’t to wreck everyone’s day, but as a sort of cry for help because his baseball coach had beaten him into a coma like a giant bully. Which really kind of pissed her off, because bullies were just not acceptable. Or maybe she was just starting to empty a lot of her own frustration out into this fighting thing, because she punched the dude in the face. Probably a little too hard. And then called the cops on him. 

You just don’t beat up on little kids. Especially if you’re a grown-ass man. What a loser.

Even worse was when she found out that some girl that she had apparently spent a lot of time ignoring over the last couple of years had turned into an invisible assassin or something; which she only found out because the bitch came after her and tried to cut her up. And okay, even a Slayer could end up in big trouble if she got knocked over the back of the head with something super heavy by someone invisible, because she hadn’t been paying attention. Cordy really owed Angel after she found herself tied up and in serious trouble, with an invisible Marcie coming after her with a needle and a scalpel, ready to carve her face up so she wouldn’t be pretty anymore, and no one would ever ignore her, or something crazy like that, and just woah. Note to self to never ignore the crazy ones again. 

Angel saved her from that, by throwing a curtain over the chick, and knocking the syringe and scalpel away. Cordy had been working herself free from the ropes, probably would’ve been out in another minute or two, but she’d have had a scar or three on her face by then, so…

It had been tough not to wind up a little shaky by the end of that, not to mention not to reassess some of her past attitudes toward people. Like, just, damn. Yeah, she’d just considered Marcie yet another loser… but she’d managed to take down a Slayer. That was big. Big enough that those… Those weird government guys who’d been hanging around the school left with her, which was… Woah. /And I made her that way. I made her… invisible. By just… negating her presence. That’s…/

/That’s probably kind of uncool, I guess, to hate on someone so hard they turn into a supernatural freak. But also, that kinda stuff just can’t happen in other places, can it? What  _ is _ it with this town? This whole supernatural convergence thing?/

To add to all the weird lately, Angel, of course, decided to get in the middle of all of it by acting like a psycho after the Marcie thing, and hovering around at her window all solicitous and freaked out over her wellbeing, because why not be all stalker-style and nuts.

She seriously took him to task over that. “Look. You’re cute, don’t get me wrong. I’d even go so far as to put you in the ‘hot’ category. But you’re kinda being a creep right now. You need to stay out of my window, and not be a great big freak.”

“I’m worried about you. You have no idea what’s coming…”

Her mother knocked on her door right at that moment, so of course Cordy automatically gave him a shove… and oh, crap. His skin was chilly. And she remembered, only then, that odd moment of incongruity when he’d put his leather jacket on her in the Bronze, and she had expected to feel immediately overheated in the sultry atmosphere of the club, only to be almost cooled by the smooth, satin lining, which had carried no real feel of body heat… “Oh, God…” she whispered.

He backed away from her, moving to vanish from her sight. Into the dark. 

Always the dark. Always night.

“I have to go…”

He was strong, when he fought next to her. And when he was around, he always caught her attention. It was almost like a frisson ran up her spine, tingling all along her flesh. Didn’t Giles say she was supposed to sense… That she should be working harder on her meditations, till she learned better to focus on her instincts, so that she could sense…

“You’re a  _ vampire?” _

“Cordelia?” her mother called, through the door.

“It’s not what you think,” Angel informed her hurriedly, from out of the night, then the feel of him was gone just as the door opened.

“How  _ could _ you?” Cordy told the darkness as she turned away from the window, horrified that she had trusted someone who had only worked to get on her good side in order, probably, to help the Master to do… something…

“Did you borrow my gold hoop earrings? Tell me right now…”

“No, I…” 

‘He’s a  _ vampire’ _ , warred with, ‘He could have killed me so many times now, and he’s never even tried.’

Her brain came back after that with, ‘Then he has some other plan!’, after which, ‘But what? What’s the point of all this?’ 

The next volley was, ‘Maybe there is no plan’, and…

And she needed to ask Giles if there was such a thing as good vampires, because otherwise… she was at a loss. And maybe her heart was breaking a little. And she couldn’t afford that. Not even.

***

This routine became her new normal. Mom and Dad didn’t come much anymore. She began to feel abandoned, helpless to the assaults on her mind. Tired of drowning, tired of fighting without a compass. No way to know which thing was real, under the buffeting attacks. She didn’t know which way was up and which way was down, didn’t know which thing was…  _ her _ . What was real, how long she had been in this place. It seemed like forever, now, like there had never been any other normal; and what was real, really? There was no time, no solid ground. 

She drifted, uncertain that the things she experienced, the things under her hands, the conversations she had were real. The emotions she felt, how they related to her day, the events she witnessed… Were they real? Could she count on that? It was all insane, wasn’t it? What happened to the other people here… Were  _ they _ real, or just figments, too, of her imagination? One of her teachers, once, in school, had asked them, after reading—or in Buffy’s case, pretending to read—some required book, if they knew for sure that the chairs they were sitting on were real, if they knew for sure that  _ anything _ was real, because how did they know for sure that everything wasn’t some higher being’s dream or something? 

For the first time, she understood what that teacher was saying. 

For the first time she got the appeal of _Alice In Wonderland_. /Like that song Mom used to listen to. One pill makes you larger, one pill makes you small… something something… And then you wake up, and your whole life is just a dream. Or is it?/ Because the entire world was now composed of a dreamy sense of unreality—but one that felt less like a pleasant dream than something oddly warped and pulled a step sideways; and how wrong was it that this reality felt more twisted and warped than one in which there had been vampires, and vampire-hunters, and… /But, no. That’s not _real_. _This_ is real, even if it feels…/

But if the things under her hands were real and didn’t feel real, then the things that had once felt so real… If they were, in fact, as these doctors said, actually dreams, then maybe she couldn’t trust her dreams? Maybe everything that felt more real than this reality was actually a dream, a brain-lie? Because they were right, weren’t they? /I mean, who would ever actually believe in… In vampires, and monsters, and old men who showed up in your life to tell you you were the One Girl In All The World, Called to fight the vampires and the creatures who went bump in the night, and…/

She tried to let it go. She almost did. 

And then Pike finally came to see her. ( _ Pike!  _ Was _ real!)  _ Made it through the watchdogs at the front desk to be her visitor. And seeing him—Pikeis _ real! _ —brought it all back, because if Pike was real then the rest of it was too, right? That meant vampires were real and Merrick was real, and Pike was telling her she needed to get out of here she didn’t belong here, Merrick would want her to get out, he would find a way to get her out she wasn’t crazy…

Pike!

Cue a new, screaming frenzy to escape; to go with him, to get her life back, to get  _ out _ , to… 

And, cue more shots, more pills, more therapy, more whirling, drugged hazes; more helplessness, and was he really real at all? Did Pike come? Did she imagine it? So confused,  _ so _ confused; because she needed to break out, needed to go, because Pike said there were still vampires, what was she  _ doing _ , staying here, she had a destiny… 

Or… was it just another psychotic break, a last ditch effort of her brain to convince her that all the rest was real? It all got worse from then on out; because if there wasn’t a line…

And the doctor made it worse, made it so hard to tell, when he said that sometimes our brains took real people and made them stars in our fantasies; that there could have been a real Pike, but he might have told her something else completely. Maybe he had told her that he wanted her to get healthy and get out of there, and he might not have said anything at all about vampires, but maybe she’d gotten him so wrapped up in her delusions that when she saw him, when she heard him, she believed that she heard things she expected from him, and it had only fueled her belief in the narrative her brain spun for her when she saw his face. “An associative cascade, Buffy, which…”

“But… Pike said… When he…” Because there were either vampires, and Pike, who had helped her fight them, or no Pike, and no vampires. How could they expect her to live in a world where there was a both-and?

She couldn’t. She couldn’t parse that. If there were no lines…

Everything devolved back into the drugs and restraints merry-go-round, even some time in the quiet room. The quiet room was the worst. No one came to help, she could be in there for hours, there was no bathroom and no one listened and you could scream eons in there. And Dr. Richards said things about losing progress, and how those visits should be ‘discouraged’, because Pike was ‘detrimental to her recovery’ by helping her to believe in her ‘delusion’, and something in French that she didn’t get and sounded like ‘follie ah doo’… and Pike wasn’t allowed to come see her anymore. 

Things went back to some kind of station-keeping. Back to the circuit of medications that made everything under her hands go warpy and shifty and unreal, everything she saw take on that mirage-y quality, made all her memories into bad dreams. And every talk with Dr. Richards became an exercise in fighting with her own mind till she clutched at her hair and tried not to scream, because she couldn’t tell. She couldn’t tell what was the truth, what was real; and she was trying, she really  _ was _ , to do what they said and tell the difference, because her freedom depended on it, and she knew it. But they had no  _ idea _ how hard it was when your dreams felt so real and so right even when it was insane, and reality felt so surreal, and so wrong. And if that was your measurement, yeah, you could find the lines, the cracks, the seams, but if you had no ground to stand on, and the only solid thing was the thing they wanted you to give up, throw away into the trash…

The main problem was,  _ all _ of her memories had that same quality. Not just the lie-ones, with the vampires. Which meant, family memories, and going-to-school memories, and walking-down-the-street memories, and doing-homework memories, and first-kiss memories, and friend memories; all her memories, everything that made her who she was, they all felt like the ones they were trying to tell her were lies. Which meant, if they wanted her to say the ones that felt real were lies, then was everything a lie? Was her entire life imagined? /Who am I, without those? Do I even know who I am? Do I even know where I’ll go, if I leave here, where everything’s all floaty, and my name isn’t Buffy, it’s ‘Miss Summers’? Did I start and end  _ here? _ Is there even an outside to leave to? Did I imagine Pike coming? Do I even know my name? Do I have a family? Do I have a home, friends, a school… Was there anything out there to burn in the first place?/

/What is real?/

/Who  _ am _ I?/

***

It was awful. That blonde bitch Darla tried to drain her mother; tried to blame it on Angel, thinking she’d believe it because she’d just found out…

Okay, to be fair, she totally had believed it, for a minute, but she really had been confused, for a while. She’d had nothing to go on from him yet. /Well, nothing but months of behavior, which you totally threw away in an instant when you found out…/

To be fair, though, everything she had ever been taught about vampires included stuff like ‘soulless’ and ‘not to be trusted’.

Go figure, Angel apparently had his human soul intact or something. Which was part of why his sire so had it in for him. That, and he didn’t love her anymore, which, you know. 

Really, Cordy just had no time at all for some kind of three-hundred year-old bitch-fight because some blonde had sour grapes that her ex had moved on. “Deal with it, honey. He’s into brunettes, now.”

“He likes them to play with, not to keep, sweetie,” the blonde snarked sweetly back.

Oh, it was so time for some slayage. “Well, I play for keeps, so we’ll just see.” Cordy threw her stake. And, embarrassingly, missed. 

At which point, Darla dove, rolled, and came for her throat. 

And burst into dust right in her face, Angel’s stake in her back. After which he stood for a long time, panting and just sort of staring at the place where his sire used to be, and… wow. He’d just staked his sire for her. 

Giles had long since looked Angel up for her, and okay, yeah, he’d had a pretty terrible rep for a really long time, but it was one thing raining terror on humans for a couple hundred years. Dusting your own sire, from what she understood, was a pretty big deal. Especially one you’d lived with and done all that terrorizing with for that whole time, or whatever. He’d probably even loved her, or come as close to it as he could have, then, and… “Um… thanks.”

“Well, you know. She was coming for you.”

He didn’t say anything about what she’d said to Darla, and neither did she. It had all been spur of the moment stuff, anyway. They just headed back together, him walking her home the way he had come to do after a night of slaying. At her window he’d hesitated briefly before the habitual sendoff. “See you tomorrow night?”

It was a turning point, and she knew it. And she didn’t hesitate. “You know it.”

Of course, less than two weeks later things were back to being dire, and he was all, “Don’t go out there, tonight. There are… reasons. There’s a…”

“I know. A prophecy. Part of the whole thing with the Anointed one, right?”

“Just stay, okay? I need to go… talk to someone.”

He was acting wiggy. “Who?”

“Just… stay. Please?”

She’d narrowed her eyes at him.  _ “Prom _ is tonight, dammit, Angel. I’ve sacrificed my whole school year, practically, to this slaying crap. I don’t even have a date.  _ Me _ . Queen C, doesn’t have a date to the  _ prom _ . I didn’t have the time. Every dope in that school should have been grateful enough to fall down on his knees and beg me to ask him, and I  _ didn’t have the time _ . Can you even calculate how insane that is? How much of a loser that makes me? Even  _ Giles _ has a date. I’m convinced he’s hooking up with that Computer Lab teacher, Jenny whatever; how lame is  _ that? _ That complete nerd Xander Harris is even going. Granted, with Willow Rosenberg, but still. And  _ I _ don’t have a date. What even…”

“I’ll dance with you,” Angel answered, and ran a light, cupped hand over her cheek. “Please. Just wait. Just an hour…”

She stared at him, both all tingly at the unexpected caress, and bolstered by it. Determined, now. “There’ve been more earthquakes. Kevin and all those guys are dead. They’re just  _ daring _ me now. I know Kevin would’ve taken me to the prom. I should just go down there, stake this Master guy and get it over with—the stupid kid too, I don’t know why I didn’t do it before—and then go to the prom and live my best life…”

“Please. Just wait a little while. An hour…”

“What are you…”

“There’s just something I need to do, first. Just… trust me?”

It was weird. Really weird, but she had always trusted him. She thought it was because he had always trusted her. She had no idea what that was, but it was real. So she did. And she waited. And somehow, when she went out that night the only real thing that went down was that she ended up getting in a weird wrestling match-slash-fight between Giles and Angel while they wrangled over something they wouldn’t really say out loud, and her Watcher kept trying to convince her that it was her duty to go down and fight the Master right this instant, and Angel kept shoving him backward and telling him he was a heartless bastard, and there was no reason she had to go tonight, he’d already screwed up the prophecy by dusting the Anointed one, and people accused  _ his _ kind of not having souls!

And, wait, Angel had dusted the kid for her? Alrighty, then!

And here she thought he was trying not to make enemies out of the vamps in town. (Well, except for with the Darla thing, but that could probably be explained away as, like, some kind of family squabble or something.) To go from playing it cool all this time to turning around and taking out the Master's right-hand... well, kid for her was kind of major.

Anyway, the argument took a little time. Sometime during all the shouting, the earthquakes slowed, and then stopped, and everything just kind of went back to normal, without incident, which was anticlimactic, but she was way okay with it. Also, she was pretty okay with not having to be the one to dust a, like, eight-year-old or whatever, let’s be real.

Also, all this probably meant she could go to prom, after all. 

Some kind of realization seemed to hit Angel’s face, cascade through his eyes, as the tremors bled away to nothing. “If he didn’t have your blood, he couldn’t get out. Slayer blood is very potent.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Giles muttered, and turned away, clutching some ratty old book to his chest with all the color drained from his face.

That night Cordelia danced with Angel at prom, while the whole school watched and wondered who the hell her—albeit older—boyfriend was… and she totally didn’t have to feel like a loser for coming there without a date. Instead, she spent the last three days of school after that being bombarded with questions as to his hotness’ identity and pertinents. Which she definitely did not in any way offer, saying that she preferred to remain mysterious. 

No way was she gonna tell the world that she still didn’t know his last name. If he even had one that he remembered.

Honestly, despite the whole Slayer gig, she was kind of looking forward to next year.

***

She had given in. She was whoever they said she was. She would do whatever they said she should do. She wanted to get better. She wanted out. She just needed the world to stop spinning, so… Whatever. She was insane. It was all insane. The things she had felt, all of her history even; all of it was a dream. This was the only reality; just the things they told her. She was ‘Miss Summers’, the psych patient. She belonged here. The only thing that was real was the bed and the orderlies and the doctor and the pills and the shots and counting the holes in the ceiling and wondering if there had ever been anything else, or if she really had made it all up in her head because she had needed a narrative to free herself from all of it; this tiny room, this whirling instability, this...

After all, anyone would, right? Trapped in such a tiny room, with only the voices all around her telling her that to be normal she had to be… this?

/Normal, normal, insane, normal, real, not real, here, not there, normal here./ 

/I made it all up. That’s what it was. I made it all up, to get away from the insanity that is being normal… here./

/Normal./

/Insane./

* * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
End of S1. Our tally thus far:  
  
*A more involved Angel, with  
*A girl who both accepts his chivalrous side, and yet fully intends to tell him to take a hike when he acts like a stalkery weirdo.   
*A Slayer who didn't actually take out the Master, so he's still extant (but who also didn't die or become susceptible to vampirical hypnosis).  
*Another Slayer who's been stuck in the nuthatch now for at least four months.  
  
Bring on S2, and a certain other pair of vampires who arrive in said season.  



	3. Prophecies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very elated for the welcome this story has gotten thus far. Thank you!  
> Three cheers for wolf_shadoe, who took time out of a massive project to make sure this chapter was ready!!!
> 
> So at first I was going to post a double-length chapter here (one about the length of my usual in other fics)... because it had a better ending (at least from the perspective of me being mean). But then I decided to wait, because I wanted to drag it out (and make sure I had enough padding between y'all and what I'm currently writing, lol). It's too bad, because it means I have to wait a week to leave everyone at the wonderfully rude cliffhanger I had cooked up for you, but there it is.
> 
> Blame Spike for the longer sections as we get on. He's less pithy, due to that wordly, wordy perspective.  
> ie, yes, we have reached "School Hard"!!! (Which is my fancy way of saying 'some dialogue from' will be in here, yadda.)

** Pt. 2: Prophecy Girls  
  
  
**

**Section 3B: Prophecies**

Spike paced around the small side-room of the warehouse he’d taken over for Dru and himself, exasperation filling his quicksilver body with nervous energy. He had set the place up nice enough of course; just the way his Princess liked things. Not that they’d be in this shitehole of a town for long. /I’ll kill this Slayer, just like I killed the last one, feed her to Dru, and we’ll be off./ 

It was sodding awful, being forced to live this close to Nest. He’d managed to avoid it for over six score bloody years. Feeling the pull, after an entire bleeding happy unlife of staying away? Bloody well unconscionable, it was. /Have to get the fuck out of here./

It wasn’t just the bullshit of having to pay obeisance and kowtow to old batface. That was, of course, bad enough. He’d thought he could maybe stay under the old arse-bandit’s radar if he managed to get in and out quickly enough, but the fucker had Aurelian spies and minions all over sodding town, and had damn well summoned Spike only a night in. 

Of course, he had promptly demanded the usual fool genuflections and shite required of a childe of the bloodline. Spike supposed he owed Angelus, after all, for teaching him all that nonsense when he was a fledge, whether he’d remotely enjoyed the lessons or no, since it earned him a ticket through that idiot event without having his head taken off. Then, of all idiotic things, the old sod had charged him with leading the attack on fucking St. Vigeous Day. 

/Bloody fuck, what a bunch of bollocks./ 

It was the hell of a thing, showing up to find out all your elders had been dusted by some mere twig of a girl before you’d come to town. Maybe this one was worth a fight, after all. According to Nest, she’d done Luke, of all pricks; and not even a year into her tenure.

/Couldn’t have happened to a nicer arsehole./ 

Still, you’d think since he had others about, older than himself—he had fucking Darla in the nest again, no doubt, for fucksake!—he could find someone else to do his dirtywork for him! But apparently the old bent bitch was busy doing precisely what she had always done back in the bloody day; hanging about in the shadows and using her cunt to talk the boys into doing all the work for. Apparently according to rumor, the bleedin’ bitch had even taken to wearing schoolgirl uniforms and the like, of late. What a bleeding joke.

Talking of reunions he’d rather fucking avoid. Maybe he could still manage it, if he could stay away from the old bastard as much as possible.

It seemed his reputation as a Slayer-killer had gotten back to old pops, though, because here he was, tasked with catching the feisty little chit and hauling her in for old Batface to sup on her so he could accomplish his grand bloody design, and be freed from his prison, or some such shite. /As if I want him free to run about making trouble for the rest of us! Best to have him stuck here, and good riddance to the old fool!/ His great grandsire was mad as a hatter.

Well, he conceded as he tossed a bit of warehouse flotsam away from himself, at least maybe he could still get a dead Slayer out of the assignment, without getting himself a death-sentence from the head of his bloodline for it. He’d been racking his brain trying to figure out how the bloody hell he was meant to get into town, kill the chit, and get the fuck out before Nest sent some bullyboy after him to take his head, or dust both him and Dru for their pains. This way he almost had a sodding license to go after the silly twig. 

/Could just say my hand slipped in the heat of battle or what-have-you, yeah? Make my apologies later, when I don’t manage to bring the bint down to Nest, so he can have first taste. By then I’ll have fed her to Dru and we can be well away; to Mexico or Canada or fucking Rhode Island. Who the bloody hell cares, as long as it’s nowhere near old Batface’s territory./ He could make nice with some other asshat of a Master, so long as it got him out from under Nest’s influence and away from the headhunters. Then they could be off; back to the sodding Old World, or to South America or some such shite. Anywhere that was away from any remainder of his fucking family, and he and Dru safe and ready to resume living the way they were meant to. /You’ll be well again, love, and we’ll take the world by storm…/

Granted, he was getting a bit ahead of himself. /First, I have to lead this idiot charge for Nest./ And in order to do so, he wanted to get a glimpse of the chit. Get an idea of her talents, her skillset. Get a whiff of her, see her dance. “No doubt she’ll be as useless as the rest, but better to know.”

“It’s all changing,” Dru informed him, lying across the low bed he’d slung over some sarcophagi for them when they’d first arrived. He’d announced their presence by finding a couple of local, low-on-the-hierarchy minions to slap around, destroyed one off the mark, cowed the rest into submission, and sent them off to find him a mattress and some bedding for Dru. Within two hours they’d had a nice boudoir set up for his Dark Princess. 

She was weak. She needed a place to kip. “What’s changing, kitten?” he prodded, and left it hanging, sure something important would come of that languid, high-pitched delivery. She was Seeing something.

It didn’t do to ignore her visions. They were in the least always entertaining. At best, they could help him figure out his next move, which made them an indispensable part of his and Dru’s life.

“Everything’s all turned about,” his Dark Princess informed him, and twisted two fingers round each other, spinning her hand upward in the air. “Nasty Powers playing musical chairs, and everyone blindfolded. You’ll end in the Sunshine, if They have their way, when the music stops. Daddy will end up in the Evening… and little Drusilla… She always has to find her own seat in the dark, pushing others out of the way to make a place.”

Spike frowned at that, and moved to the edge of the bed. He took her hand, lifted her long fingers to his lips, kissed them one by one; paying court to his reason for unliving. /Musical chairs… And why the bloody hell are we talking about sodding Angelus right now?/ He had thought he’d felt the old git about, then written it off. Angelus had always stayed away from Nest. But what if…

/Oh, bollocks./ Another thing to brace himself for, then; a nice family reunion. /I suppose it makes sense, though. Considering fucking Darla’s likely about./ Peaches hadn’t been with her, to his knowledge, since he’d left them again in China, but if there was one constant in the universe, it was that his grandsire couldn't stay away from the old slag for long.

Any road, if Dru felt him about, then it was a certainty. /Christ./ Spike had to fight down the urge to clamp the hand in his too tightly; to crush it. /He left you. You don’t need him! You’re  _ mine _ , now!/ “Don’t rightly know what could be being moved about, pet,” he managed evenly, “but I promise you. Spike promises you, I’m not going into the sun. I won’t leave you. And I’ll make bloody well sure you won’t have to jostle anyone out of any seat to have a place. You’ll always have a place with old Spike.”

A sad smile crossed her face as she rose, leaned forward to touch his cheek. Cupped it, staring into his eyes. “Not once I tell you it’s time to go dance your waltz without me…”

He blinked at that, now utterly confused. “Why on Earth would you do that, Dru?” And it burst out of him, in spite of himself; a flood of low rage. “Just because Angelus is about, doesn’t mean…”

“It’s time you find your way. Can’t always stay with mummy, forever…”

The words hit him hard in the chest; like a physical blow. She sounded like… 

Like Mother. Like the demon who’d worn Mother’s face when…

He was on his feet and scrabbling away before he could slap her. Before… 

Clenching his fists, he whirled away from her. “Got things to do, pet. Minions to order about. Ambush to set up. Got a Slayer to see, plans to make. You just stay here in bed, kitten. You need to keep your strength…”

“Yes. Go to the Evening. You won’t see the Sunshine yet.  _ I  _ can’t even see her. All locked away in the dark…”

Shaking his head, fists still clenched, Spike marched out of the makeshift bedroom and headed upstairs to the lower levels of the warehouse.

** *** **

Junior year started out pretty idiotically. First off, Snyder, the new principal, seemed to think she was starting to be a troublemaker. A troublemaker! Her! Cordelia Chase, model student and future valedictorian! 

Okay, granted, right now her grades were slipping a little. And, yeah, she had more tardies than she had ever had in her life before this—put  _ together _ —and not a few unexplained absences; and okay. It was tough when she couldn’t tell school officials why she had to keep sneaking off campus to save the idiots in this dumbass town from themselves, or explain to Snyder that his educational institution was built square on a gateway to hell, right on top of a zillion-year-old Master vampire who still badly wanted out of his magicked bubble-cage… But she was still one of the better students, right? She was pulling a B-plus average, was going to get that A-average back (at least!) any day now. She just needed a break in the slaying; just needed the supernatural to lay off for like, five, ten minutes so she could focus on catching up on her homework, maybe get a little more sleep.

Tsha, right. What was sleep, anymore?

But still; Snyder really needed to lay off. Stupid little nazi moron. Like, okay, so, she didn’t have the excuse of as many extracurriculars these days to explain her being caught off campus. Well, really, any extracurriculars, since she’d had to drop cheer squad, volleyball, even her campaign for class president. Not that that had been going very well anyway; no better than her failed aspirations at May Queen. It seemed her popularity had taken kind of a dump lately. She had previously thought that whole thing had been because of the Marcie fiasco, but who knew; people were starting to think she was weird. Harmony had recently informed her that she wasn’t the It-girl anymore, that she was kind of a social leper these days, and that most people assumed that she had joined a cult because of all the crosses, which, like… Okay, she got why they’d leap to that assumption, but just the thought that an airhead like  _ Harmony _ thought she was social death… 

Being the Slayer sucked ass, and none of this was fair. She daily dreamed of quitting. Maybe even just running away; from all of it. Sometimes the only thing that held her back was the memory of Kevin’s body, hanging like that over the couch, all drained...

/Really, why? Why did I have to become this One Girl? I would rather still be the other it-girl. The one who was lonely for a whole other reason, and still had, you know, people. Because right now, I have no one. No one to talk to but a dead guy and an old English dude… and, like, Xander Harris./ Well, she supposed she could talk to Willow Rosenberg, since that idiot Xander had spouted off to her about how she’d saved him from that bug-lady, but, like… Okay, she was desperate, but she wasn’t desperate enough to make  _ them _ her friends. And besides, Watcher-guy had spent, what? About ten-thousand years lecturing her about ‘keeping her secret identity intact’. No way was she going to put herself through another lecture like that yawnfest just to unload on someone like Harris, or freaking  _ Willow _ . Getting it off her chest to someone her own age that she was a supernatural warrior stuck with the bill of fighting a bunch of crappy monsters that went bump in the night? 

She’d spent years calling them geeks. They’d probably laugh in her face.

Anyway, no one had time for bending people’s ears, much less feeling alone. Not when a couple of science club nerds kicked off the year by trying to capture her and use parts of her body—/Um, just  _ parts? _ Like, all of me isn’t hot enough? Excuse me, much?/—along with a bunch of grave-robbed other parts, to make some kind of Franken-girl for Daryl Epps to mack on, because apparently his little brother managed to bring him back to life after his accident. 

Just, what even? But also, this was the hellmouth, so why not, right?

First of all, yeah, she would have been way down to date Daryl Epps when he was alive. Like, um, fully-aged football beef, right there. But let’s be real. Not so much when he was a walking corpse. 

_ Definitely _ not when she was part of a stitched-together, patchwork corpse herself. 

Though, at least it explained why so many bodies in the graveyards in town were being messed with. /Talk about ew./ And thank goodness she had Angel on her side, because getting out of that one was kind of tough. Even Slayers could be outnumbered, sometimes, and no wonder so many of these chicks died young. /They’re not gonna get me before I get out of this hellhole and go to Vassar, though, dammit! There is  _ no _ way!/

But, just… /I’m a superhero. Shouldn’t I have, like, a support staff or something? You know, like someone besides a weird old Brit librarian to help research ways to keep me alive? Like, shouldn’t he also be like Q from those hottie Bond movies, and be making me gadgets, too, so I can be like… I dunno, Batgirl or whatever? Didn’t she have gadgets?/ Cordelia didn’t know from superhero movies, aside from the ones she had sat through on dates to make guys happy—though she had definitely watched a few Bond movies with her mother. James Bond was hot, in any iteration. /And I should have some sort of… scantily dressed person coming in to serve me coffee. Only, a scantily-dressed guy, not a chick, since I’m the hero and I’m a chick. But I definitely need a peon I can order around, because he knows even less than me. I can’t do that with Watcher-guy, because he’s all knowledgeable and crap. And…/

Well, she did kind of have a hot sidekick. (Angel counted as a sidekick, right?) At least, when he was around, and not being all weirdly hard-to-get and mysterious. He did this thing where he was always around when she needed him, but otherwise was kind of a ghost. It was bizarre.

At least she could count on him to be there when the chips were down. And they had good chemistry in a fight. Hoo-boy, they did.

/So, I guess I have half a superhero team. Which according to Giles is, like, more than most Slayers get, and I should be grateful, or whatever. Ugh./

She could still go for a research department and a scantily-clad servant. Having someone else to help her with the Slayer-homework would go a long way toward upping her sleep-quotient. And also, it would seriously improve her GPA.

/Wait. Willow’s kind of good with computers./ A lot better than she was. She’d tricked Cordy into deleting a whole assignment once, which was just way uncool, and, Cordy had to admit, kind of fierce of her, and… /You know, if I’m serious about needing a committee… I mean, it’s not like she’s doing anything else earth-shaking, like solving world hunger. Maybe she should be helping me, since she already knows something. And Harris could, like, bring me coffee, since he owes me his virginal life. This could work!/

Before she really had a chance to consider further, much less get her head on straight after that whole zombie-Frankenstein weirdness, a new vamp busted into town, totally out of nowhere. One that seemed to have an agenda. 

There she was, just minding her own business, actually taking the chance to dance in the Bronze and blow off her badly overdue French homework, when some asshat wandered off outside to go get made into vamp-snacks. So, of course, she had to interrupt her chill-time to go out and fight the offending vamp, blah-de-yadda, god her life was getting repetitious. 

Except once she’d dusted the idiot vamp, some random, kinda short but much older-feeling vamp with a long, leather coat stepped out of the shadows where he’d apparently been watching her work, gave a little slow-clap and a tiny nod, as if appreciating her form or something. “You’ll do, I suppose,” he informed her blandly.

Okay, offensive much? “I’ll  _ do? _ Who raised  _ you?” _ She whirled her stake, glaring. “Step up, skinny. You’re next.”

“Oh, not today, I think.” The vamp had a weird English accent. Also, what the heck had he done to his hair? Cordy had seen some dated hairstyles on more than a few vampires, but this took the cake. “I believe we’ll save this engagement till Saturday.”

Cordy feinted, moving in. “Oh, I’m not waiting till Saturday to dust you. The hair alone is an affront to fashion.” She tried for an overhand strike, was batted aside like she was a fly, which, okay, offensive much? “You ever try to hit up a licensed cosmetologist? Because really. You need some work.”

The vamp just grinned at her, all fangs and red lips and red button-down against a washed-out face and pale hair in the night. He looked like he was amused; like he was having fun. He also looked way too cocky for her taste. “Saturday. You can try to take a little off the top then.” A tilt of the head. “Course, I’ll kill you instead, but you can try.” He whirled away, a flare of leather in the night. “All you girls do. Haven’t managed it yet.” And he was gone, down the back alley behind the club.

“Oooo-kay,” Cordy frowned, staring after the vanishing figure. “Why are we so hung up on Saturday, anyway?” She’d been all keyed up for a nice kill, and now she felt unsettled. 

She brought her concerns about the odd confrontation to Mr. Librarian, of course. And he got all studious and weirded out, of course; as he was wont to do in these circumstances. They spent a little time trying to figure out who the vamp could be, but it wasn’t like they had a lot to go on.

Apparently there were a lot of English vamps out there who were over twenty in vamp-years. Bleached hair didn’t help much. 

They were just about to give up when Angel came in, sneaking in from behind the stacks like he liked to do. Giles was all, “Well, he can't be any worse than any other creature you've faced…” when her sometime-fighting-companion broke in out of nowhere, sounding even more broody than usual.

“He's worse. Once he starts something he doesn't stop until everything in his path is dead.”

/Okay, good to know./ “So, you’re friendsies from the good old days, I’m guessing?”

“I wouldn’t call us ‘friends’.” Angel sounded seriously with the stick up his ass over this guy. 

“Well,” Cordy answered, turning away, because sometimes she just couldn’t with his mopey ‘tude. “I can get behind someone who’s goal-oriented.” She shrugged, and spun her stake. /Once upon a time I was seen as goal-oriented/ she thought, frustration foremost. “He have a name?”

Angel’s answer came out like it tasted bad.  _ “Spike.” _

Giles was all over this whole ‘Angel knows the new vamp’ thing. Which was funny, since he had never been the happiest about her being all pally with the smooshy vamp, even after his soul-confession-deal. “Right.” He was already flipping through his big book of vampires, or whatever. “Angel, do you know if this Spike fellow goes under any other name? If I can trace him back to his origins…”

Angel’s eyes, though, remained focused on Cordelia. “Be careful,” he informed her softly. “He wouldn’t come to town at all unless he had to. Not with the Master still in control. He’s avoided this place for over a hundred years. If he’s here now…” Something tightened in his features, making Cordy’s stomach twinge slightly. “Just… watch out.” And then he was gone. 

Like ya do, when you’re Angel.

Giles frowned, looking irritated. “Our job would be markedly easier if he simply told us all he knew,” he pointed out.

Cordy shrugged and turned to the table, stake back in her waistband. “What books do we hit?” she asked without even bothering to sigh. So much time spent in here reading about demons or whatever, that should be spent doing her homework. No  _ wonder _ her GPA was tanking.

***

Spike had occasionally had minions, but this stupid bloody business of having to command a whole sodding brigade of the idiots was a trial. Couldn’t he just head out and have done with it? 

Dealing with all the personalities, the fucking rigmarole, was driving him mad. It made his fangs itch, made him want to attack now rather than later, just for something to do. They’d had plenty of time for preparation and the lot, and he was never one for sitting about and flagellating himself into some idiotic religious frenzy. 

The bellends down there were still doing so, if anyone could believe it. Only a few of the less religious were, like him, ready to just get on with it. Fucking zealots. /Mind me to look for a Slayer next time in goddamned Borneo./ Why the bloody hell the girl had to be Called here where fucking Nest was holed up was beyond him. Not that she had any control over where she sprouted. He rather had the inkling that the poor chits were called up wherever there was a Master worthy of their skills setting up shop. God knew Nest counted. 

He’d heard through the grapevine that the last bint had taken on that asshat Lothos, only a few hours away, in LA. Good on her. By reputation that tosser had been a right nasty bugger, the way he’d carried on. ‘Course, the poor twig had died doing him, but that was the way of things. /Too bad, too. Could’ve gone down there and did her proper, got her for Dru, and never had to come up here to deal with all this Aurelian bullshit. What a soddin’ loss./

Christ, if he’d known the wanker was still hunkered down here in this piece of shite hellmouth, he’d have found another way— _ any _ other fucking way—to put Dru back together again, steered well clear of this bleeding place. But now they were here, and he was stuck with the decision. Hence he’d see it through, get her back in one piece, and then they’d get the fuck out.

All he needed to do was to figure out how in the bloody hell he was going to off this sodding Slayer without one of batface’s Aurelian bullyboys coming along behind him to drag him off to Nest as some sort of fucking sacrifice, to be mortified with a flail, or just flat-out dusted at the old sod’s pleasure. Couldn’t have that, and leave Dru alone to manage without him. And they’d do it, his blood-kin. Mad as hatters, the ones who hung about his great-grandsire. Mental, the lot of them; willing to dust at his sodding word like a lot of fucking ninny sycophants. 

/Why the fuck did we come here, again?/

“My Spike will see to it.” Fingers trailing along his neck, brushing over his siring mark, singing his name and calling his blood. Reminding him of who he belonged to and why he was here. “Make me well again. And then we can run round and round the ragged rock; rough and tough,  _ ruff, ruff _ , just me and my knight…” Her fingers trailed away to run up her cleavage, to the long, lovely, pale column of her throat, to the midnight of her hair. It was distracting enough that it took him a long bloody moment to remember just what the hell they had been talking about. After all, Dru had been too damned weak for much in the way of shagging for a while now. Speaking of wanking.

Oh. Right. The Slayer. “Well. That’s soon enough done, kitten,” Spike promised her, and lifted a hand to caress her cheek. She leaned into his touch; his Dark Princess. So terribly frail right now; but all the more his, for it, needing him as she had so soon after Angelus had left them. She had been so lost, so lost… “Spike’ll do this Slayer just like the last one. I’ll take care of you, pet, and then we’ll take the world by storm, won’t we?”

“Oh… yes…” And then her eyes snapped open, dark and whirling now on his, and oh, hell. The pixies were showing her something again. “But this one, this Slayer… She’s wrong. The wrong one here. Great Grandpapa is supposed to be gone all floaty, all burnt up in Sunshine…”

Spike frowned, parsing through this latest bit of madness. “Dru,” he bit off finally, and shook his head in negation. “Nest can’t even stand in the shade at the edge of a late afternoon. He’s too bloody old for all that; even if he could leave his fool prison. He’ll never go into the sun again…”

“…And Daddy is supposed to be all wrapped up in Sunshine, not the bright lights shining in the evening…”

Spike picked his way through that, feeling his frustration rise as it always did at any mention of Angelus. “What the bloody hell has he to do with it? Even if he’s been suckered into something here with Nest…” He caught Dru’s arms, gave her a shake. “Listen to me, Dru! You need to accept that the wanker’s gone. Has been for a hundred bloody years. Dammit!” He grabbed her roughly to him, stared into eyes made mazy by visions. “He’s not coming back, pet! You need to let him go!” /Damn you, Angelus; damn,  _ damn _ you!/

“Silly Daddy, all caught up in nasty prophecies… Just like Sunshine, all trussed up and seeing pixies.”

He was just now starting to pick up that maybe the repetition might mean she was talking about a person, not a state of being. “Who’s ‘Sunshine’, pet?” he managed gently, though lowering his tones, backing off the inherent resentment and frustration from things Angelus took massive effort. He knew the way of it now. Had to, after so many bloody years. Gentle coaxing. What Dru saw… It didn’t do to discount it. 

“Two shiny Slayers, all in a row. Only, Sunshine’s in the dark, in the land of the fallen Angels, and the Evening’s in the sunlands… Switched about, spinning, spinning ‘round. And Daddy’s here; here with the Evening instead of with Sunshine… And my Spike will burn the sooner, if he goes to find the sun.”

Spike pushed her away, releasing her arms sharply, and wondered. He had no bloody clue what the hell the rest of it meant, but… two Slayers? Who’d ever heard of that? It had to mean something else entirely. Maybe another was meant to be Called right here in the same spot after he killed this one, or summat. Who knew. Meantime, the more important bit was, she was definitely confirming that Angelus was about, along with some other nonsense about Angels. Which…

He fucking well could be, Spike supposed. Overwhelmed as he had been with the vast presence of Nest, all around him in this place, he had felt little else but those faint hints. With the progenitor of his bloodline near, along with any number of other relatives, too many of them his senior, or just generally within his own age-range and thus vying with him for power, his senses had been too swamped to seek for that specific flavor that was direct family. /But if Angelus…/

/No. He’s always avoided old Batface./

/But if Darla…/

But no again. /If Angelus  _ were _ here, the old bent bitch wouldn’t be here with Nest the way she was meant to be, currying favor and climbing right up his arse. She’d be off with him, murdering some defenseless family of idiot humans and setting ‘em up amidst their doilies for the pleasure of the viewing public./ And that one Aurelian bullyboy he'd run into had said it, right enough, that it was about time his whole family had finally come to town. That meant Darla was here as well. _And_ fucking Angelus.

Either way, he couldn’t be arsed about it, dammit. He had other bloody problems, didn’t he, than trying to figure out who of his immediate family were about in this sodding burgh. He had his Princess to right, and then he had to get out. And to do it, he had to pretend to play Nest’s game first, yeah. “Dru, luv, here’s what I need you to do. You need to stay here, where Spike asks you, and not follow me, alright? I have to go do something old Batface has asked of me, innit? Lead a load of fools to attack this new Slayer…” He frowned again, rubbed his hand over his chin in thought. Sodding Nest thought he’d just fall into line. He’d play it that way, of course. Pretend he was doing as he was told, fulfilling the rite of St. Vigeous or what-all nonsense. Prepare to lead the charge with those self-mortifying fools…

And then, there at the last minute, he’d start the thing off early. A day, two days before the Slayer expected him. Make it a nice, unexpected attack. An ambush, because the girl wouldn’t be ready for it. Catch her off her guard, while she was busy doing whatever the bloody hell else, since this one seemed to be trying to live a life outside of slaying. /What other Slayer have you seen do things like dance at a club and the like? Well, aside from Nikki Wood, who had the brat?/ 

He’d bring as many of the nits as he could manage to tear away from their idiot flailing about. /Go after her in her school, maybe; somewhere she doesn’t expect me./ 

Jumping the gun would make Nest angry, but it would accomplish the task he wanted it to, and do it admirably; maybe even buy him time to get Dru out before the rest, those most loyal to Nest, even realized what he’d done, since they’d all still be busy flagellating themselves downstairs. They could be halfway to Albuquerque or fucking North Dakota or some such shite before the lot came tearing after them. 

And he could keep his edge on, before he went mad. /I’ll get my fight./ 

There, right in that last moment, when all the other combatants were busy doing whatever the fuck Nest had told them to do, he might close with the Slayer, get her into single combat as he was wont to do… and find glory once again in the instinctive hand-to-hand that was a fight with his ultimate challenge. /Her, or me. Do, or dust. Nothing else, in that moment. Never felt so alive. Not when feeding, not when fucking; never. Never once, except when fighting one of them./ 

He was still seeking the finest high. Still felt that there was some ultimate, shining pinnacle to be found in that contest. Some Slayer, someday, would give that to him. /Not this one. Not likely. She doesn’t have that… something. That  _ je ne sais quoi. _ / He had been seeking it since he had taken his first Slayer, in China. Something higher, better, stronger, more…

This one would be alright. Possibly tough enough to match Nikki Wood, though he doubted it. Wood had had years of fighting experience under her belt, a sprog to fight for… and she had also had the death wish. This one wasn’t ready to die yet. She was too new. She still wanted to live.

No. This wasn’t the one. But he’d still take it; take the fight, take the rush, then take her, for Dru. /I can do her. Take her to Dru before anyone’s the wiser. Feed her up, heal her, and we can be off. And Batface can go hang, there in his prison. Can’t come after us himself, and we’ll be long gone before most of the sodding nest is even done flogging themselves./ He didn’t give a fig about offending Saint fucking Vigeous. /Never was religious. Leave that to the old slapper and the rest./ 

They’d be hunted, have to leave town fast, before Nest sent his bullyboys after them. Because he’d have taken what Batface had claimed as his own. The whole point of this attack was to capture the Slayer and bring her down to the Master; another attempt at setting him free. That a minion of his line might instead use the Slayer’s blood—the blood of the Slayer who had been called on this hellmouth specifically to counter him?—to heal a lesser sire, another minion, instead? That he might be cheated of his prize by one such as Spike, for one such as Drusilla? 

Oh, no. They would be lucky to get out of town, out of California, with their unlives intact. Hell; they’d probably be running for years, wherever they went. But they’d be out of this hellhole. He’d have Dru at his side, free and healthy, and ready to take on the world with him. They’d be hell and gone from Angelus, if the bastard was really here. She might never even see her bloody ‘daddy’. And Dru would be strong again, able to fight at his side. 

That was worth everything.

***

If only she could have dusted skank-face down in the hellmouth, none of this would be happening. Cordy was sure of that. It had to be him attracting all these sideshow freaks to town, trying to make good with ‘the Master’. 

Seriously, though. Did they have to attack the school? 

What was it with this place? Did it have a sign? Some kind of supernatural, neon one that glowed and blinked and had a big arrow pointing down at it that said, ‘come here! Yummy students!’ or something? Because, seriously; now the weird-ass shit was coming at her from outside. And on the worst possible night, too. 

“I thought this guy was gonna wait till Saturday!” Cordy complained as she shoved a bunch of scared parents and kids into the library. Giles would have to keep an eye on them while she dealt with this incredibly badly-timed disaster. 

“Yes; well, it appears that he has impatience as one of his signature character traits. Or, he was lying about the date, and he wished to ambush you. Or…”

Cordy waved a hand to cut him off as she considered other options. “God; and I was just looking good to Snyder. I thought I could totally turn this thing around…” She had to get back to the front somehow, to fight this guy, but right now she was cut off… Wait. Didn’t Angel always get in and out through the stacks, somehow? “Stay here.” Pivoting, she headed up the library steps.

***  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
dun dun dunnnn.... (How, oh how will it go differently?) etc. Will Spike find out where Buffy is? What will he do with that information?   
Find out next week.  
*g*  
I love you all, thank you so very much for being here!!! So excited for the response this story's been getting.


	4. Prophetess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! I hope this reveal is worth the resultant cliffhanger. Much love to all of you!!! Much love to wolf_shadoe, for helping get these chapters ready in good time for 'release'!
> 
> More dialogue from "School Hard" in this.

** Section 4B: Prophetess **

/Fucking Angelus./ The git really  _ was _ here. Not only that, the sonofabitch was still acting the twat for whatever reason he had been since he'd left the family. This time, he'd cozied up to the new Slayer, like a ponce.

Well. If this business with the bint didn’t work out, p’raps Spike could suss out a way to capture his grandsire, use the bastard’s blood to heal Dru. Sire’s blood could do as well, wasn’t it? 

Likely wouldn’t brass Nest off either, unlike taking his prize away, since the plonker was helping the enemy like a big wet fucking dunce. He’d be doing a service. Might even get sodding knighted for it, in some nancy Aurelian way or other, before he was done. 

Christ, it’d be nice to get his revenge on Angelus, heal Dru, get her respect and gratitude, and be rewarded for it by the master of his line, all in one. 

It sounded like a bloody good day, didn’t it? Even better, maybe, than fighting another Slayer to the death. Though, granted, he’d have to play it by ear, with Dru. She wanted her vengeance on Daddy, sure… but she wouldn’t want him dusted without that moment. God knew she deserved it, as well. She’d waited long enough for it. Best he didn’t dust the blighter before she had a go at him first, wasn’t it?

Still, nothing said he couldn’t have a bit of rough-and-tumble with this chit before he sent her off with the lads to get carried off to Nest. And here he might get credit for that too. What a fucking day. 

Might as well play along, though, long as possible. “Angelus!”

Marching in holding some struggling human infant under his arm, the sod was trying to play his old bad self, be all chummy. Which was a laugh, considering the last sodding time Spike had spent any time at all with the prat, his grandsire had helped humans survive the presence of the Prince of Lies of all asshats, as well as Spike and Nostroyev, and yours truly ended up cast out of a fucking submarine and left to swim for shore with the sunrise riding right up his arse the entire time. Five fucking miles, he’d swum. Barely made it, too. 

Tosser. “Spike!” the git answered, sounding as if he wanted nothing more than for them to be best mates. Odd note to play things on, that. It’d’ve been a bit more realistic if he’d gone for prickly and sardonic, maybe thrown in a, ‘What did you get, a promotion? Nest is trusting you with this many minions? Never thought I’d see the day!’

Spike played along, though. “I'll be damned!” Tossing aside the pole he’d wrenched from somewhere to use as a makeshift weapon, he greeted his former nest-sire with a pounding, back-slapping, manly embrace and a hearty laugh, as if buying into the entire charade. Nearly crushed the head of the struggling, fear-smelling human sod dangling under Angelus’ arm while he did it. 

“You… You’re with… You know… I thought you were… Cordy’s friend…” Choking with betrayal, red-faced, the human struggled some more in an attempt to escape.

They both ignored it as Angelus did his best to try to find the right note with which to convince Spike he was his bad old self. Teased him a bit about his sloppy work ordering the minions about, that sort of thing, but mostly in tones that sounded like he approved of Spike’s use of the manpower, his leadership, and that, which was bollocks, really. Angelus wouldn’t approve of his decision-making and leadership if he were on a rack with his guts on the pyre. It wasn’t in him to do it. What a fucking farce. Was he buying time for something, or… “What's new with you?”

“Everything.” And that was the first real expression Spike had seen cross the prat’s face in the entire conversation thus far.

/No doubt./ Was he _shagging_ this Slayer, or… What the bloody fuck was making him risk so much, with Nest here in town, and… “Yeah. Come up against this Slayer yet?” How the hell was this vamp, who used to be able to read him like anything, put him down for the slightest tic, the tiniest flinch, the faintest sign of weakness, missing that he was onto him?

“She’s… pretty. Not too bright, though. Gave the ‘puppy dog, I'm all tortured' act. Keeps her off my back when I feed.” He tried a laugh that fell flat. 

Spike already smelled the Slayer creeping up behind Angelus, calculating in the dark. Couldn’t smell her on him, per se, though, which... What the hell was this? Was he helping her without fucking her? Why on earth would he be doing it, otherwise? “People still fall for that Anne Rice routine. What a world!”

“You’re a  _ vampire?”  _ the struggling human under Angelus’ arm demanded of him, purple now from exertion and fear, and no doubt lack of oxygen.

Angelus gave the impression of squeezing the tosser’s head off. The git shut up. And then Angelus tensed slightly, nostrils flaring, and abruptly had the bloke out from under his arm, held limply out in front of Spike. The stupid nit was unconscious now, from lack of air, sagging. “Want a bite before we kill her?”

/Because she’s right sodding behind you. You fucking wally; you think I can’t smell her?/ If Angelus thought he could be distracted by the sight of fresh food by this stage of the game, he was as much an idiot as he ever was. /Fuck, do you think I’m still the fledge you left behind a hundred years ago? Christ, Angelus, I’m a hundred and twenty now and a Master in my own right! Who the bloody hell do you think you’re talking to?/ “Let’s drink to the reunion. After we finish up here, Dru would love to see you…”

He saw it, of course. The pained flicker. Sonofabitch would never want to deal with the mess he’d made there, never wanted to see Dru, no matter how his Princess yearned to see her sodding ‘Daddy’. Not that he really wanted it, knew what it would mean for him and Dru, but still. /You unimaginable fucking sod./ 

Their heads bent in unison. Spike, though, kept his eyes angled up over Angelus’ shoulder, caught a brief glimpse of the approaching Slayer, now just behind his grandsire and inching along the length of the hall to approach them. She was very obvious in her attempts to remain the man’s opposite shoulder, as if thinking doing so would keep her out of Spike’s view until she could move in closer to their tableau. /As if I can't use my fucking nose to catch you out, for chrissake, girl./

Grinning, Spike pretended to move in for the kill. And, as Angelus copied his movement, he drew back… and punched his grandsire right in the fucking kisser, with everything he had. Christ, it was satisfying.

Angelus reeled back, dropping the snack, to stare at him in amazement; like he actually thought he’d pulled one over on him till now. “You think you can fool me?” Spike roared at the damnable idiot. “You were my  _ sire _ , man! You were my... Yoda!”

Angelus caught his footing… with help from the Slayer who had all but fielded him as he stumbled back. “Thanks,” he murmured.

“No charge, big guy,” she answered. “Thanks for the distraction.”

“It was worth a shot.” And she stepped around him, over the unconscious boy on the floor. “Well?”

Spike tilted his head at her. Angelus was no longer important, ponce that he was. “Alright, then.” 

Everything else disappeared. It was down to her and him, as it always was when he fought a Slayer. There was nothing else on Earth but the contest, and the blood rushing through him, ready for the sweet, hot taste of fresh Slayer, and the feeling of being so madly  _ alive _ . “The last Slayer I killed... she begged for her life. You don't strike me as the begging kind…”

Sharp, dark eyes cut into his from the gloom. “I’m going to kill you for messing up my night. You have no idea how close I was to getting in good with Principal Snyder, you waste of dust.”

She was a sparky one, he’d give her that. “Sorry. Got bored.” He shrugged as he crouched, grabbed up and spun his bit of rod. “Tell you what. As a personal favor from me to you… I'll make it quick. It won't hurt a bit.”

Girl just eyed him, standing up tall. “Uhuh. Sure. Look, Mr. Tough-Guy; can’t we handle this  _ mano-a-mano  _ somewhere not full of dumbasses? Like maybe somewhere more befitting a dude who has a rep as ‘the Slayer-killer’?” 

The challenge in her dark eyes had him assessing her a little more in-depth. Clearly she wanted him and his away from her territory, the gits she had been created to protect. On the other hand, it was satisfying as hell to know she’d heard of him, was aware of his reputation. It had him straightening a bit to watch her in the low light. “Usually when I fight Slayers, they don’t use mopey gits like my grandsire as a shield. Why don’t we do this right, girl? Here and now.”

The bint just shrugged. “I fight with Angel. You don’t wanna put up with that, you’re gonna have to go find another Slayer somewhere.”

Clearly she’d meant it as an offhand comment, but her words struck him dead center, had him stepping back involuntarily. “Dru said…” /No. Fucking well shake it off, you ponce. You’ve a fight to deal with, right here and now, and a whole fuck of a lot of onlookers. You’ve a reputation to keep up, so go to!/ He went back to his battle-crouch, trying hard to pretend he wasn't thrown off his bloody game.

But then Angelus was there, glancing at the chit, back to him, as aware as he was of what it could mean that Dru might have Seen something. “What did Dru say, Spike?” he demanded, voice harsh and uncertain.

No. There was no fucking way. But he was straightening again, wondering, as he held his stave, now at his side. He had a prickling feeling all over him, remembering. /‘Two shiny Slayers, all in a row.’/ “She said… there’s another Slayer, all trussed up and seeing pixies.”

Angelus frowned at him, then down at the tall girl now staring back and forth between them. When he came back to Spike he was glaring. “That’s impossible.” And he cut his hand away from himself, insistent. “She died. In a fire.”

“Um, excuse me? Who died in a fire? Angel, wh…”

Spike opened his mouth to join the chit in demanding just what the fuck Angelus meant by that, when a hand closed around his wrist; familiar, caressing, ethereal. “My Spike. This isn’t the right one. If you destroy her, you destroy us all…”

Spike spun, staring… and felt all his excitement soften into concern and not a little alarm. “What the bloody hell are you doing here, Dru? Get back home, this is a sodding  _ battle _ …” Christ, there went his stiffy for the fight. He could’ve brought it all home to her; Slayer blood or maybe Peaches’, if she’d just stayed away. Now he had to care for her, get her out of here safe. She was vulnerable, there was a goddamned  _ Slayer _ here, who could take her head as soon as look at her…

“Oh, great. Another one. Who’s  _ this _ chick, now?”

Spike ignored the Slayer’s caustic bitching to focus on his sire, who was very clearly right in the midst of a vision; one so strong it had prompted her to leave their makeshift chambers and cross town to be with him here at the sodding school. “Not the right one for you, my Spike. This one’s Daddy’s.” She tilted her head, watching the now poleaxed Slayer with bright, gleaming eyes in the dark. “The right one for you is with the Angels, bound away from the sun. Trapped with the pixies…”

Impotent arousal turned to rage. “Dru, what the bloody hell are you on about? I don’t have time to figure out what you mean. I’ve a Slayer to kill, blood to get to you. Got to make you well…” Christ, this was frustrating; why couldn’t his woman just stay where she belonged until he was finished doing for her? What the bloody hell  _ was _ this? 

“You’ll go, when you find out,” Dru informed him, and made a moue. Her expression turned sad, put-upon, almost jealous. “You’ll go find Sunshine, make her bright again. And Princess will have to come back here to teach Daddy the right way to walk to find the path…”

/What the bleedin’ hell?/ “Dru, I’m not going sodding anywhere, except to get you away from the fucking Slayer before she hurts you…”

“I mean, I’m right there with him, but like, is she nuts, though? Because I’ve never heard of a crazy vamp before. Who the hell is this chick?” The Slayer was brandishing her stake now, looking both confused and frustrated enough to dust them all merely to simplify the situation, and, just, fucking dammit, this fight was  _ over _ . He needed to tend to Dru. This was a goddamned disaster. All these minions watching, and he couldn’t even control his woman, what the fuck would they think of him when he next tried to give an order? Granted, she was technically his sire, but…

Dru ignored him to turn to her sodding ‘Daddy’, touched his face lightly. 

_ “Excuse _ me!” the Slayer exclaimed, and tried to jostle her way forward, looking enormously offended at the concept that some other bint might touch the almighty Angelus. Apparently that was the way the wind blew. Poor chit; the more fool her. Clearly the old bastard hadn’t told her anything of his history; with Dru or about how he worked. As well he mightn’t.

Of course, Angelus flinched a little at Dru’s touch, though his expression remained oddly gentle as he looked on her, beneath something that might even have been, of all things, fucking regret. “Hullo, Dru,” he murmured. “How have you been?” He even seemed to mean it. It was offensive.

Dru tilted her head slightly, her eyes depthless pools that said she still had more to See and say. “Take care of your new shiny bauble, Daddy. Princess will be back when you need her.” And then her gaze hardened to obsidian. “Only, watch out. When my Spike has Sunshine all brightened up, and she comes, you’ll have to choose. Great-grandfather will not be pleased; and neither will you.” And turning away rather sharply from her sire, she faced Spike, her expression taut. “Take me to the Angels, my Spike.”

Awed joy bloomed in his breast, filling him with warmth. She actually wanted to leave her sire? _Willingly,_ after all these years? /Christ, I’d’ve never believed it!/ But he sure the bloody hell was willing! “Where…”

“I’ll tell you. I don’t like how we’re being played with, like little toys, but I know when it is time to go.” Her voice was harsh. “Take me to our carriage, my knight. Mine, still, for a little while.”

Spike didn’t need a third command. He had her up and cradled in his arms, was heading for the window. “Have fun with the Slayer,” he called to the remaining, gaping minions. And, as a last, parting shot over his shoulder, “Enjoy shagging her, Angelus!” 

_ “Excuse _ me?” the Slayer called, yet again, sounding if possible even more offended than she had previous. “And where the hell do you think you’re going? We were in the middle of a fight!” 

Spike ignored her to make his dash toward the freedom of the beckoning night. Left behind, his erstwhile attack squad exchanged glances all round him and crouched nervously, looking uncertain whether to continue the engagement, or flee as their leader headed for the impromptu exit, a mad vampiress in his arms. 

Spike didn’t give a damn whether they were routed or remained to dust. Christ; sometimes Dru’s visions were enough to drive him barmy. He should never have come here. /Getting Dru close to her precious ‘Daddy’ again? Worst fucking decision I’ve ever made. Should’ve turned the fuck around the moment I felt the slightest flicker of his arse in town./ Granted he’d not known the sod was here when he’d come, and of course it went without saying that he’d never wanted Angelus to desert them in the first place. /If you hadn’t, we’d still all be…/

/Fuck, don’t think it. It’s done. And we’ve made out alright without you! And now if you think you can just waltz back in again, take my spot with Dru…/ Spike had  _ earned _ that place. He had finally gotten to be number one with his sire. It was hard-earned, and it was  _ his _ . No way should her fucking ‘Daddy’ have it back, because of some bloody stupid vision about some sort of other Slayer, or…

He didn’t know what the hell Dru had Seen, but just, hell no.

Carting his weakened sire in his arms, he leaped up into the broken plate-glass window and out into the night, leaving his borrowed minions behind to be Slayer-kibble. He apparently had an entirely other Slayer to fry; some-bloody-where else. Not in this shitehole of a town, and certainly not the fuck where Nest or his godforsaken, piece-of-shite grandsire had set up shop with this one. /Visions be-damned, Dru. I’m not losing you to Angelus again!/

Fuck, what a bloody fiasco this had been.

***

So, the bleach-blond vamp eventually just took off, along with his ditzy girlfriend. The one Angel said he knew from back in the day; the one who’d called him his sire… but yet somehow Angel didn’t really like to talk about how he knew the girlfriend, which, okay. Cordy had to do a little work to get that 411 out of her guy.

Cue a serious talking to. Much more serious than the whole, ‘Don’t lurk on my windowsill’ chat.

It ended well, though. She had Angel’s number. He behaved pretty well once you cornered him and got him to fess up. You just needed to be tough with him and get him to be straight up with you, and not let him wiggle out from under you on some kind of wishy-washy technicality.

Apparently he’d been an even bigger bad boy than she had thought, once upon a time—amazing, right?—and turned this guy Spike’s girlfriend just because he could, after stalking her and raping and killing her whole family, and then, like, an entire nunnery all around her, and her, and generally made her straight-up nutso. Which, great. Just what Cordy needed; a crazy vamp chick who was, somehow, still obsessed with her sire, wandering around? Also, how was Angel both this Spike’s sire and his sire’s sire? But according to Angel, he’d taken over, like, sire-duties from Spike’s actual sire, because Drusilla had been too out of it to really do the job, or something. Okaaaay…

Not that Cordy didn’t know from absentee mothers. Her mom was barely present most days, with the valium habit. Which, by the way, was one of the main reasons Cordelia Chase was going to be a self-made woman. She had no problem with the idea of marrying rich, but she was not going to depend on any man to keep her head above water. No siree. Not the way her mother depended on her father to keep her in clothes and pills, while she kept the benzo haze on just to cope with her own inadequacy. Yeah, Cordy was going to land a guy with a Porsche and a trust fund, because no reason not to live comfortably (not to mention, the guy should definitely pull his own weight in the relationship!)… but she was also going to make something of herself!

Anyway, this Spike guy, who was this Drusilla’s kid, was apparently still kind of teed off at Angel for his having, like, abandoned the family and wandered off to feel sorry for himself after he got the soul. Which Cordy figured was kind of fair, even if Angel acted like he thought Spike was kind of a whiner. Cordy really laid into him for that. “Look. I get it. Like, I’m not even gonna start in on the whole rape-and-torture part of the relationship, and yeah, I can see how, with a soul, you wanted to be as far from that hot mess as you could, because it probably felt like something you could never fix and never pay for. And it probably is. But I get him, too. My mom pops pills on the daily. Half the time I doubt she even knows what day of the week it is. I don’t know how Dad puts up with her. I sure the hell wouldn’t want to be stuck dealing with a crazy parent as a teenager or whatever, because dad bailed…” She lasered him with her best ‘put Angel in his place’ gaze. “Which, lucky for me,  _ my _ dad never has. So forgive me if I think you’re in the wrong here, Angel.” 

He’d looked at her like he was amazed at her interpretation, and hid from her for a while like he tended to do when he was in the doghouse; but at least he’d been there for her when they’d faced down the threat. She would give him that. He’d been at her side instead of hanging around somewhere in the BG, acting all flighty. 

She still couldn’t get over that the dopey vamp with the peroxided head tried to attack her school. Dipshit. Anyway, Cordy had fought him with Angel at her back, chased off him and his whole pack of idiots, fighting their way back in from the front door to where her mother and the principal were locked up; side-by-side, with Cordy trying to get the weirdo in the pride and lure him out of there to face off with her in some place ‘more befitting the Slayer-killer’. 

The prickly bastard had straightened to glare at her, and whined a little about her having Angel on her side. Cordy had shrugged that one off and let him know Angel was a fixture for her in fights. 

Weirdly, the minute she’d told him he could either deal with that or go find another Slayer somewhere, he’d gone all wiggy. Like, seriously. She’d meant it as an offhand comment. Big surprise when the fashion-victim of a vamp had straightened, all freaked, and backed off, muttering something about someone named ‘Drew’. 

That was when everything had fallen apart. At the mention of that name, Angel had frozen, glanced at her, then over at Spike, and got all weirded out and  _ interested _ . “What did Dru say, Spike?” Even more concerning, he’d sounded… worried, which… /Okay, I still need to do some detective work on this chick, because how come everyone takes all her weirdness so seriously, if she’s just crazy?/

The real kicker had been when Fashion-Victim mentioned there being another Slayer. Like, A, that was impossible; at least to hear Mr. Watcher-Guy tell it. 

As such, B, if it wasn’t, she really needed to know about it. Maybe this other chick could take over, and she could get back to cheer squad and having a perfect GPA before she had to start applying to colleges!  
  
That was _totally_ 411 she could have used, dammit!

Even worse, Angel had acted like he didn’t think it was new information. Like he’d known there’d been another girl nearby and recently, all, “That’s impossible. She died. In a fire.”

Cordy was not about to let this just fly by. Angel had known another Slayer before her? One who’d died? In a fire? /Like, info, much? Hello _sharing?_ /   
  
Also, how helpful had he been to _her?_

Angel was just acting too weird; all spazzy about the entire subject, and like he was having a private convo with this other vamp, totally without her even there, which, just, _no._ Time for Queen C to remind the boys that this subject, this school, this town, was ultimately about _her_ and _hers,_ thank you very freaking much. “Um, excuse me? _Who_ died in a fire?” 

Cordy seriously didn’t like this whole sitch. Angel was distracted from helping her. Worse than that; he was _hiding_ something, and really? That made her more upset at this point than curious. She was just about to start interrogating him about the whole thing when that chick ‘Drew’ had shown up to spout her whole prophecy thing, appearing behind her out-of-date boyfriend like a ghost or something in her weird, white nightgown, because why not make it a party. She put off the most cray-cray vibe imaginable, just standing there like she’d forgotten to get dressed, with eyes that said ‘time to visit the psych ward, much?’ and a voice that said she was on more valium than Cordy’s mother had ever done, and definitely more than was really necessary for polite company. 

Cordy had heard her mother try to talk after a few tranks. This vamp was the closest thing she thought she’d ever witness to a downer junkie. Just, wow. “My Spike,” she’d murmured, running a caressing hand over the blonde guy’s face. “This isn’t the right one…” And then she’d gone on for a while about how destroying Cordy would be to destroy all of them, or some crap, the whole while sounding like she was doped to the gills.

This Spike, guy, though, seemed to take her way seriously. He’d completely dropped every pretense at fighty-ness to swing on her, demanding that she ‘go home’, that she was too weak or whatever for this fight, and all this protective shit, sounding more concerned than she had ever heard a vamp sound, about  _ anyone _ …

Of course, Cordy did her best to affect bored disdain as she demanded to know who the hell the other chick was. It covered her surprise that any vampire could sound so, like,  _ worried _ , much less actually  _ caring _ . Well, any vamp but her souled-up… whatever-he-was. /Is Angel wrong? Do you have to have a soul to love? Because this dude really does seem to love this other vamp. Like woah./

Spike ignored her, focused as he was solely on his girlfriend or whatever, while nightgowns-and-benzos did an impression of a valiumed-up Linda Blair right there in the school hallway. “Not the right one for you, my Spike. This one’s Daddy’s.”

/Well, okay then. A, I don’t belong to anyone. B… who the hell is ‘Daddy’?/ 

Creepy little high Wednesday Addams looked at her then, like she was some kind of bug on a card and she was being studied, then informed her bleached boyfriend that the right one for him was, like, in heaven or whatever, tied up away from the sun and trapped with some fairies or some crap, which was just crazy-talk. God, this vamp-bitch was out of it. And yet, both this Spike guy and Angel, of all people, seemed to take her rantings way seriously. 

What _even?_

She had watched as their visiting vamp got all pissed off for a sec, his ambush shot all to shit. He ranted a little about how he’d wanted Cordy’s Slayer-blood to get his girlfriend well again (which, by the way, huh? Not so much, blond-boy!), and man, did he ever look frustrated to have to protect his girlfriend instead of finishing his fight with her.

Crazy-chick ignored him, though, ranting all loopy about how Spike was going to go somewhere in the sunshine—which, by the way, sounded uber-promising—and that she was going to come back to Sunnydale (that was, if she was in fact the ‘princess’ in this story)—to teach ‘daddy’ something (Cordy was just about then realizing that ‘daddy’ must mean Angel, and oh, hell no). She was right there with blond and dangerous when he protested. If this psycho ho every came back to her town, she was dust. Right off the bat. The history with Angel was already way enough, and the whole thing just creeped Cordelia out.   
  
Really, she would rather just stake the bitch at this point than deal with nutzo vamps, because too complicated, much?

Especially when the crazy bitch actually  _ caressed Angel’s face _ . 

Oh  _ hell _ no.

Lucky for him, Angel flinched away from the chick. Unluckily for him, he acted all gentle and, Cordy thought, weirdly regretful when he spoke to her. Asked her how she’d been and all this crap. At which point, crazy bitch told him to ‘take care of his new, shiny bauble’, whatever the fuck that meant, and then told him she would be back when he needed her, and just what the hell? And then she ranted a little more about her boyfriend, and something about sunshine again, and some great-grandfather, and a choice Angel had to make, and then asked this Spike guy to ‘take her to the Angels’, which, just… wow. She was truly, grade-A nutzoid.

It was pretty offensive that, as the weird-ass couple took off, that Spike guy told Angel over his shoulder to ‘enjoy shagging’ her. 

Cordy had been dragged out to see  _ Austin Powers _ by a wannabe boyfriend at one point. She knew what that word meant. Talk about an asshole.  _ “Excuse _ me? And where the hell do you think you’re going? We were in the middle of a fight!” 

Her protests hadn’t seemed to matter much. To Cordy’s amazement, Mr. Late Seventies just grabbed his pale-ass girlfriend, swirled around with the long coat, and up and vanished through his big, broken window. “Well. So much for that mess of an anticlimax.”

“We’re in trouble,” Angel informed her in the sudden silence.

“For sure. Like, for instance, look at my school!” Shaking her head, she’d turned on her guy, stared into his eyes. “And, you, mister, have a lot of answering to do.”

Angel flinched, looking pained. As well he might, considering.

He was about to be grilled like a chicken steak at a homecoming barbecue. “C’mon, big guy. We’ve got parents and a principal to free… and then you and I are gonna have a talk.”

More wincing… but he came. He knew better by now than to say no to Queen C.

***

The poor twig was in the sodding asylum. Fucking hell. You’d think that bleeding Council of theirs would have at the least seen to it she was brought out of there and given a new Watcher. Instead it was as if they’d put all their eggs in the new basket, up there in Sunnyhell, and left this one to rot without support of any kind. 

It hadn’t taken long for him to figure out where she was. That Dru’s vision’s hadn’t been mad at all. All they’d had to do, really, was find a place to settle in for the day (he’d ‘liberated’ a nice warehouse down in Long Beach, killing the Thurgalds who were squatting there, got Dru installed downstairs nice and safe), then hunted up a few vamps who were still about who’d unlived in town during Lothos’ tenure. Ones who had apparently remained lone wolves somehow during the former vamp-king’s reign as Master of Los Angeles, and thus avoided being sent into battle against the Slayer who had ended in, according to the word on the streets, taking out Lothos’ entire nest and all tangential minions by luring them into her high school gym over on the edge of Santa Monica, and then burning the whole bleeding place down around their ears.   
  
"Tell you what, bro. She was only around for a week or something, and she dusted the whole smack. Scragged every one of 'em."

Spike leaned back against the nearest upright in the warehouse, a _frisson_ traveling down his breastbone to his palms at the words. /Christ, she must've been something./ So fresh out of the box she couldn't have known a single thing about her business, and yet she’d even managed to take out Lothos himself, in revenge for his having offed her Watcher.   
  
Spike had heard of said Master by reputation, though thank fuck he'd never run into the sod. By reputation he'd been one hell of a bastard. Also, the tosser had been kicking around since about twelve-hundred or some damned thing. He'd have to have been powerful as fuck. /And a chit so new as that, with only her wits and her instincts and jack shit for training did him?/  
  
He _had_ to meet her. He had to _try_ her. And it sounded like he might even get the chance, because though it would have been much more likely that the poor, underprepared chit would have ended up yet another swift casualty to the Slayer-system, facing a battle-royale like that one... Still, it was starting to sound more and more like she had somehow survived. It was utterly ludicrous, and yet... "How the bloody hell did she do that?" he demanded of his current informant.  
  
"Bitch made holy water spray-bottles out of fucking Perrier or some shit. And used fire, somehow. Not sure how. I was hell and gone from this place during that whole mess, man, I tell you..."  
  
Spike was having none of it, and flung up a hand to halt the hurried words, flashed fang. The babble cut off instantly.   
  
Fuck. If this was all just some sort of urban-legend-style rumor, LA's version of a big bad tall-tale... "Then how the fuck do you know..." he began, ire rising. This was his third interview since he'd landed in the Carson demon-bar tonight to find himself a stable of minions , and he was starting to tire of hearing the same fucking story, even if that might mean there was a thread of truth to it.   
  
And yet, of the evening's three informants, this one had volunteered to serve, impressed by his age and reputation. The other two, he had forced to vow fealty to his blood. Hence, now he'd brought them all back to Long Beach, he'd have to keep the first two out by the doors.   
  
This one, though, would be loyal. He wanted a master, wanted to belong; wanted someone to give his unlife some sort of meaning or purpose. Spike would, therefore, allow the tosser to watch over Dru in future, while he searched the city for this supposed missing Slayer. If, indeed, she actually still existed, which right now, was something of a unicorn hunt.   
  
Faced with his irritation, the skinny prick in front of him held up both hands in surrender. "Seriously, boss. Swear to God. Got most of this from word-of-mouth, out of a couple guys who straight up ran the fuck away, once she did Lothos and they could bail, because the minion-bond broke."  
  
Spike leaned back again, floored. This was direct information. /Fuck./   
  
/Well. She sounds a right feisty bitch, this one./ More than that, she sounded fucking inventive.  
  
Christ, he wanted to fight her. Just picturing the battle conjured by this weed's words made his jeans tight. /Too bad it's all no doubt some sort of bloody pipe-dream, and the chit dead./ “So, she took out the nest, and then what? Who did her?” Obviously someone had to have done her, since this other chit was Called up in Sunnyhell. “One of you do it, after, or…”  
  
"No,” his new minion answered, anxious to please. "Uh, word is she got caught in the fire somehow. Died of smoke-inhalation or whatever; or at least, everybody thought so. But some of the guys said they thought they saw ‘em carting her out in one of the ambulances instead of throwing her in the coroner's van with the rest of the stiffs; so, you know… who knows? These days, with those defib things, and all the CPR and everything, and the oxygen masks…”

Spike considered it, discontented over the possibility. He supposed if the chit had guttered out even briefly, it would satisfy the conditions of the Slayer Line. No doubt it’d be enough that the next girl on down the line of Potentials would be dialed into service. After all, to his knowledge n o one had ever asked what would happen if someone managed to bring one back.   
  
/Oughtn’t she just die again, though? Since the demon as animates her has passed on to another?/ “So… she could be alive?” he asked, working his way through it. /Could she still be a Slayer, somehow? Could there really be _two_ of the chits?/ 

/No. If there were, this lot would know of it. She’d be active again, and they’d all be minding their P’s and Q’s like demons tend to do when a functioning Slayer is moving about a city…/ Instead the place was a right wretched hive of scum and villainy once more. As tended to happen, when the sheriff died in the line of duty and left a power vacuum.

The pissant currently acting as his informant gave an uncomfortable little chuckle. “I don’t know, yanno? I mean, one of our buddies plays cards with a Loose-Skinned who works nights as a janitor in a mental hospital up in Canoga Park. He says he’s convinced she’s up there in the state ward. Says he’s snacked on her a ton of times, trying to help her stay sane, but that they have her tranked up pretty bad. He says it’s not a pretty picture. Not sure if he’s telling the truth, or if he’s just blowing smoke. You know, like, the guy just likes to say he’s eaten a Slayer’s emotions, because it makes him sound like a badass…”

Something flowed through Spike then; something that felt like fury, and maybe a little nausea. Slayers shouldn’t fucking be locked up. They shouldn’t be strapped down, nor yet drugged. For damn sure, they shouldn’t be left behind by their handlers in the sodding nuthatch, to be told they were mad because of what they’d seen and done. A Slayer was a goddamned  _ warrior _ . She should live and die as a warrior, not waste away like that, lost in her own mind.   
  
An ending such as this minion was describing was just a bleeding insult. That one such who had managed to do a powerful bastard like Lothos had been left to rot like that was just…

It was…

/But it would be just like those unimaginable bastards to do it, if they thought she wasn’t their it-girl anymore. Isn’t it./

Rage won out over nausea, settled into his chest to fuel a new and furious certitude. “Where is this place?” he demanded, clipped and prepared for action. “Canoga Park, you said?”

Something in his eyes, his expression, must have spelled death for someone. The minion leaned away from him, looking abruptly scared. “Yeah. Uh… I can find the address for you, if you…”

“No. I can find it. You stay here and take care of Dru. Get her anything she needs. If anything happens to her while I’m gone, you’re dust.”

“Yeah. Sure. You got it, boss. No problemo.” 

Without another word, Spike turned away from the cowering vampire, and headed out into the evening to slip into the DeSoto. He had a Slayer to see.

***  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The next chapter is, of course, the one we've all been waiting for.  
XD


	5. The Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do very much apologize for the lateness. RL be kickin' my butt. But here it is; the moment we've all been waiting for! (THANK YOU, wolf_shadoe, for whipping it into shape in time for posting!)
> 
> So... this chapter's a scoche longer than the last ones. As in, 11k... which is more along the lines of my standard chapter length. It doesn't contain a ton more scenes or anything (I think there're only three? four?)... just a lot of intensity of emotion &c.
> 
> Anyhoo.
> 
> Get ready to jump off the diving board and into the Spuffy pool!

** Section 5B: The Girl  
  
**

It had been easy enough to locate her, despite the warren of the place. All he had to do was follow the feel of her round the periphery of the building till he found her signature near one of the sets of narrow, double-paned windows, deep-set in the wall and crosshatched with security wire. From then it was just a matter of sussing out which room contained the same windows, only from the inside of the mess of corridors and things. That, and of course killing any asshat who got in his way. 

In the end, he only had to off two of them; one officious security prick who got in his face about it when he first let himself in, after having knocked out a bird on the way through the card-secure doors at the nearest nurse’s station—he’d almost managed it with some fast-talking, too, before the tosser had come round to put his great nose into the business—and another sort who looked to be maybe a doctor. White-coated woman with pens in her breast pocket and a prissy, know-it-all expression, who’d gotten all pinched upon seeing him and demanded he leave because he didn’t have a visitor’s pass, and any rate it was too late for visitors, and he was going to disrupt the patients, and…

And, he didn’t wait to hear what all other sort of brouhaha his presence was going to cause. He’d just snapped her neck and had done with it. Yappy bitch.

Not that he was bothered about killing a hundred of the sods, of course. Problem with doing too many on his way in was, anyone saw the bodies, they’d set off an alarm, and the place would be crawling like an ants’ nest in a minute. He wanted to be in and out with the chit before anyone even knew he was here. Would make the whole thing a deal easier, in the long run, so best if he did the whole thing a bit quieter.

He could be a theatrical sort when necessary, but he did in fact know how to get in and out swiftly and silently if needs be. And, of course, how to hide the bodies.

A supply closet was a vampire’s best friend in such situations. After taking care of that bit of housekeeping, he was off again. 

A few minutes of sniffing about and some quiet calculation found him at the thick security door of the room housing his objective, and peering through the small, square porthole set therein. He could see the poor bird in there; just sitting in one corner of her small, sterile room, in a set of thin, over-washed, off-white pajamas, curled over her bare feet in an equally-bare, stainless steel chair with no cushion. It made her look disturbingly vulnerable. He didn’t bloody like it at all. Slayers weren’t supposed to look sodding vulnerable; or at least, they weren’t before he’d had a chance to fight them a bit, corner them; fucking  _ earn _ it! There had to be some bleeding  _ fire _ , first!

Far as he could tell, there wasn’t much fire left in this bird. There wasn’t much left of her at all, from what he could tell. The chit was looking blankly out of one of the pair of windows, while plucking vaguely and repetitively at her trouser legs with two fingers in a clear sign of drug-induced sensory confusion. Her gaze wandered out into the middle distance without visible recognition… though he could see why she might prefer that view to anything within her cell. The two narrow portals were her only bloody link with the outside sodding world, though no doubt she couldn’t see much through them right now but darkness. Hell; he doubted the chit got to see much through them beyond indirect, diffuse light during the day, considering her upward angle. 

No stars to be made out from here, at night, either; not in the city. Nor yet any horizon or any such bleeding thing; not from her perspective. All they were were reminders that she was in here, and the world was out there. /Fuck./

Granted, it wasn’t as if she had anything more uplifting to see within her shitehole of an abode. There was sod all else in the room but a hospital bed—again, bare—adorned only with leather-and-fleece-lined tie-downs. Fucking hell. Amazing those had held out, and them having a Slayer in here. Aside from that, there was a combination loo-and-sink, barely seen off there in one corner; also of stainless steel, without a separate seat. It was all exceedingly utilitarian and depressingly institutional.

Christ, the bird looked awful. Smaller even than any of these chits ever ought; as if they’d shrunken her somehow. On top of that, her face, now laid to one side so her cheek was settled to the back of a hand, seemed a bit puffy. Sallow, as if she hadn’t seen the sun in weeks, and it had the sagging look of someone who had been kept too long on some very strong drugs. The sort that softened the muscles and dulled up the brain. Her movements—when she made them, which wasn’t often—were protracted, slow, like they were being directed from somewhere other than within the girl making them. She occasionally glanced at her hands, as if she found herself surprised to see them responding to her commands at all. She shifted once, while he watched, uncurling enough to examine one, before dropping it to her lap, where it lay there, open, like a wounded animal.

She was definitely a Slayer—or had been? Or was still, rather, he supposed it must be. He could feel her from here, buzzing all up and down his skin, and strong enough that he rather thought she’d been a good one, at least at one point. Hell. She’d had to have been, to have taken out Lothos and his boys. /You dusted one hell of a monster. And now look at you./ Right now, the sense in him that screamed, ‘Predator! Run!’ seemed… oddly muted. And it wasn’t just because he was on the other side of a thick door from her. 

/Bloody hell./ 

The whole thing made his gorge rise. The way she looked. The way she moved. The way she stared out of the window, at nothing. Hell; even from here, the room smelt of chemicals. Drugs, and disinfectants, and slow death. It made his fucking skin crawl.

He was going to get her out of there. No way any Slayer was going to die slow like that on his watch, mad or no. He certainly couldn’t fight her like this. It wouldn’t even be worth the time he’d taken getting in. Not at this pass. /I’ll get you out of there, luv, and get you back to yourself, and then we’ll have us a nice rough and tumble. Once you’re right again./

Oh, yes. Unlike that one up in Sunnyhell, this one might be worth his time. She’d take a little coaching at first, perhaps, to remember who and what she was; but unlike that bird up north, who hadn’t taken on more than a few fledges and a hyped up high-schooler or two, and had skipped great-grandad entire, this one had already fought--and dusted--a Master. And young or not, she’d seen a bit of life, too. She knew what it was to be abandoned by all and sundry who claimed to love her. 

She might, in fact, be The One. /Are you The One? The one I’ve been waiting for?/

He rather thought she might be. /You just need a bit of time, yeah? To find yourself again./

Well, they would start now.

He smelled the encroacher before the man rounded the corner, collared him before the tosser noted the presence of an unwonted creature at the door of one of the rooms on his rounds. “Hullo, then,” Spike drawled, holding the creature by the… Well, the singularly unattractive scrubs he wore didn’t precisely have collars to speak of, but he supposed it would do to say he’d scruffed the bloke from the front. “Tell me. What sort of drugs to they have her on? The chit in there?” And he jerked his chin toward the Slayer’s cell.

The orderly or whatever he was blinked at Spike in amazement and disdain. “What are you doing in here? This is a closed ward! I’m going to call secur…”

A twist to the throat of his scrubs cut off his words. “Maybe you didn’t hear me right,” Spike informed him with what he knew was admirable restraint, considering his current mood. “I’m not really very happy right now, so if you will. You see, the girl you have trapped in that bitty hellhole is fairly important to me. You might call her my destiny; and as it happens, I’m not best pleased to see the way you lot have doped her to the gills—no doubt because she’s told you all that I exist, among other things—so here. I’ll give you one other chance. What’s she on?” It was important to suss that out, since he’d either have to rob the place of a few doses of her current meds before absconding with her, or get her some of whatever the bloody hell it was off the street later. She was a Slayer, and would no doubt survive a sudden cutoff to the stuff, but better if she got the chance to walk down off the shite they were using to poison her brain and body. An abrupt stepping off of that sort of thing could really fuck up a person, and he wanted her well sooner rather than later, not sweating through withdrawals for weeks on end, on top of every other bloody thing.

He loosened his hold on the scrubs. The orderly opened his mouth. “Look. If you’re a junkie…” he rasped.

“Wrong bloody answer,” Spike informed him casually, and fanged out. 

“Holy fuck!” the man screeched and started back, abruptly terrified. As tended to be the case, the first time pillocks like him ever saw a vampire. 

The scent of urine suddenly pervaded the air. 

Lovely. “Not a junkie,” Spike informed him, tilting his head to allow the asshat an unobstructed view of his gleaming dental equipment. “Just a bona fide member of the world you lot have bunged the girl away in the mental ward for insistin’ exists, isn’t it? Now. Give me her med-list, and I won’t have to kill you.”

Choking and squeaking, the piss-smelling orderly jerked his hand to the door. “There. Locked. Key. Belt…”

“Right.” Grabbing with his free hand, Spike found the keys on the bloke’s belt, attached with a retractable lanyard, and using the smallest, the sort with a circular end, turned the lock on a metal square attached to the door. A sort of lid lifted when he tugged. Underneath lay a sheaf of papers bound to a ring-binder; list of meds, other pertinent data such as name, birthdate, et cetera. “Excellent. I’m takin’ this. Oh, and we’re unlocking the door. You do that for me while I grab this nice notebook, thanks, mate.” 

Nodding with alacrity, the half-choked orderly fumbled with his keys and made to open the door, Spike still holding him by the throat one-handed. With his other hand, he popped the ring-binder loose and removed the sheaf of papers detailing all the information he might need about the Slayer within the room. “Haldol and Lorazepam. Jesus fuck, look at the bloody doses. Well, you sure the bloody hell wanted to keep the poor chit doped. Have to trank a Slayer to the gills to keep her down; haven’t seen anyone but Dru take this many benzos at a go and still be up and kicking. Christ.” Giving the man a shove so that he stumbled, he strode after him into the room the second the door was opened, sending him staggering into the corner furthest from the Slayer. He also shook off the fang-face for the mo’. Considering her state of mind, she’d not need to see him that way. Feeling him alone might just push her over the edge; and anyway, the orderly already knew he meant business. He was well-cowed for the nonce. “You. Stay over there. I hear you even thinking of trying to dodge out of here to sound an alarm, and I’ll eat you. Drain all the blood from your body and leave you splayed out on her bed, there, tied down and lifeless, like a husk, yeah?”

The shaken man stared at him, pale enough he might as well have already been used as someone’s pre-dinner snack. He’d not move for a bit.

Turning to the girl, Spike sighed. She was only now turning toward the door and the voices, her reflexes so bloody slow it was like watching some odd sort of puppetry. She was also almost completely unaware of her own senses, whether because of the drugs, or because no one had ever taken the time to teach her. He watched her raise her hands, with incredible slowness, to rub at the backs of her unclad arms, smoothing the gooseflesh there brought about by his presence, with no awareness in her dull gaze of what it meant that every small hair on her body had risen to warn her of a Master vampire’s arrival. /Good fucking God, she’s bloody well out of it. Bleedin’ Christ, this is gonna be the hell of a mess to sort./ 

Moving slowly round the end of the bed, he squatted before the chit and nodded at her. “Hullo, Slayer.”

She blinked at him for a long second, as first the greeting, then the title, percolated through her addled gourd… 

Then all hell broke loose. She erupted from her metal chair with such speed, despite her shaky state, that the damned thing fell away from her, sideways to the floor, making its companion totter as well. Spike had to fling up an arm to stop it then caroming off to smack him in the shoulder. By the time he looked up again, the poor, mad chit was cowering in the corner of the room, a good three feet away from him, rocking with her fingers in her hair and her face buried between her forearms, mumbling something about what was real and what was not, and oh, fuck, these bastards had done a hell of a mindjob on the poor twig, hadn’t they?

Hell. How was he to manage this? “Steady on, there, Slayer. I’m real, and so are you, whatever these bastards have told you, alright?”

“…Not real not real you’re not real they said you’re not real…” 

“Well, they were wrong, weren’t they? Can feel me, can’t you?”

She didn’t even favor him with a glance, only went on moaning. “…Not real not real you’re not real you  _ can’t _ be; not real…” 

Bloody hell. “Listen,” he tried again, “I  _ am _ real, and that means you’re not meant to be in here. I’ve come to get you out…” Probably best at mo’ not to tell her the why of it.

The chant cut off for a moment, and she started, her eyes lifting incredibly slowly to stare at him through lank blonde strands, her fingers digging into her scalp amid somewhat darker roots. He found himself arrested briefly by her eyes. Cloudy though they were, they were some of the most interesting eyes he had ever seen; green, shot with gold, like a verdant glade in summer… Or so he vaguely remembered, from his days seeing those, under the sun, and what the bloody hell was he thinking? /Stop being a prat. Those eyes are fucking veiled by goddamned drugs, and she can’t even think straight!/ “Yeah. I’m gonna get you out of here…”

“I can’t…” she whispered, and bloody fuck, she sounded terrified. “They hurt me when I try to leave.” There was raw fear in her gaze now, etched in her face, her hunched body, her shaking voice. “I  _ can’t _ go back to the quiet room. The last time, when Pike…” Something in her face shut down. “Was that real? When Pike came? Is Pike real? Are you real? Am I real? Is any of this…” 

She shook her head hard and closed down again, the shutters coming back up in her eyes… and he lost her. Her head lowered once more, fingers digging hard enough into her scalp to damn near draw blood as the mutters recommenced. “Not real, nothing’s real; this is real, in here; this room, this chair, this bed, this wall, nothing else…”

/She can’t fucking do it/ he realized, feeling sickened. /She’s trapped in her own goddamned head./ The bastards had done their work well. 

If Spike knew nothing else, he knew of learned helplessness. He’d experienced his own share of it in his fledgling years, in a certain, canted way, and definitely seen it used against prey. It was a mind-game; a mental war waged against a person, but once they’d accepted the conditioning, it took a hell of a bloody lot to break it. And right now she had gallons of drugs in her system to boot, throwing off her balance to the point she probably couldn’t even tell which way was up to even begin to plant her feet and start the process of throwing off all the rubbish they’d shoved down her throat. 

One thing was sure, he couldn’t fucking kill her. Not even to put her out of it. /Not like this. She bloody well deserves better. And any road, she’s not a Slayer right now./

Well, she was, in that she had something they damned well couldn’t take from her... but aside from it just wasn’t remotely a fair fight right now. What these fuckers had done to her in here was a bloody travesty, and he had to see it right before he could feel right about this entire situation.

There was something about this one that made him feel like he was meant to understand her. Like he was meant to have been the one to find her. After all, for one bloody thing, he understood batty. He’d been molded for this job. 

/Besides. Who ever heard of bringing one’s own mortal enemy back from the brink, and then facing her down after building her back up? That would be a legendary thing to do, right there./

The girl was rocking again, moaning, her pitch rising to a worrisome level while Spike was busy with his thoughts. “…All in my head, just imagining it, just crazy, I’m insane, need more meds, I’m having a break, a psychotic break, DOCTOR RICHARDS!” she shrieked, all of a sudden, off the top of her lungs.

“Well, fuck,” Spike muttered, and out of other bloody options, vamped out. May as well hope at least to startle her out of screaming her fool head off and calling a whole sodding brigade of white-coated idiots into the place.

One look at his fangs and the lot, and the poor chit shut down like a light had gone out in her, fell back onto her palms and literally scrabbled away from him. “No, no, no, no, no, you’re not real this is not real you can’t be real none of it is real, no no no nonononono…”

There was so little of the Slayer left in her right now that she couldn’t even dig up the bloody instinct to look for a stake, with a vamp right in bloody front of her. They’d convinced her that if she acknowledged the reality of his presence, she’d be dooming herself.

“Oh God, she was right, she was right, wasn’t she, she’s right…”

A bit stressed by this point, Spike whirled on his toes to glare round the foot of the bed toward the asshat cuddled up behind the toilet. “Will you shut the bloody hell up? I’m trying to help this poor girl you lot have right buggered up, yeah? I don’t want to have to take the time out to kill you in front of her. It’ll set back negotiations.” Of all the people he needed to confirm his reality at this point in proceedings, the one he needed least to do it was the sodding orderly he’d as soon kill, now he was no longer fucking useful.

The man’s moaning cut off like water at a tap, and he cowered back into his corner again, too terrified to move, much less speak.

Course, by this pass, Spike doubted he’d get much of use out of the chit, either. She’d been so fucked in the head he wasn’t sure he’d ever get anything cogent out of her; not at least till he got her to surface out of the fucking drug haze. She had not one goddamn clue which way was up right now, poor creature. “Right, then,” he muttered, and nothing else for it, sighed. “Not my fault, innit?” he told her. “We’ll start over again a bit later.” And, feeling oddly regretful about it, since it wasn’t exactly a fair fight, he pulled back and smacked her a good one right in the temple. 

She fell back arse over teakettle to sprawl in the corner, lights bloody out. 

Tossing her over his right shoulder, he shook his head as he stood and made to exit the room. “You. Where’re the meds kept round this sodding place?”

The orderly just stared at him, slack-mouthed and terrified. 

“Meds!” he barked. “Where’s the med station, or the dispensary or whatever the hell?”

“Uh…” A shaking hand rose and pointed to the left. “Left, right, two halls left. Nurse’s station there. They have…” 

“Fantastic. You’re staying here. If you try to call for help before I’m gone at least five minutes, I’ll come back and kill you slow, got it?”

The nit sank back into his corner, looking about the color of day-old putty. It was relieving, since Spike really would’ve liked to kill the bastard now his use was up, but he honestly just didn’t have time. And, his hands were full. “You’re bloody lucky I’m busy.” And he headed for the door. 

He found he had a rather indescribable urge to flash fang at the camera over the exit as he departed, which was really honestly a terrible idea if one wanted to keep the existence of vampires off the map, and ensure there weren’t witch-hunts and things. Though, granted, humans were damned good at explaining such things away. ‘PCP junkies’, ‘deformities’… There had been any number of explanations whenever his sort were caught in blurry footage in these days of constant ‘big-brother’-style surveillance; all of them laughable, but there it was. 

For the chit’s sake, though… Christ, he really wanted to wave it in their faces. It wasn’t right, what they’d done to her.

Well, he’d flash fang to the bitches at the dispensary, and let that satisfy him.

He locked the orderly in behind him and followed the prat’s directions, gaining the nurse’s station in short order. There were three of the bints and one white-coated doctor behind the desk, chatting about one thing or the other, when he arrived. “Good evening, all,” he inserted jauntily, as if one just stepped up to their place of business every day with a young girl dangling over one’s shoulder. “Nice night for an abduction, innit?”

They gaped. One of them gasped. Another shouted for ‘Ricky!’ and reached for some sort of panic button. He lifted his left hand to forestall all that nonsense. “None of that, thanks. Just passing through. If you’ll be kind enough to pass me the bird’s medications, we’ll be on our way with none the wiser. Just enough for me to wean her off of the shite you’ve got her on—Haldol and Lorazepam were the big names—we’ll be off.”

“I beg your pardon!” the doctor put in, marching around the edge of the desk. “Shirley, call security. You can’t just march in here with… with one of our patients over your shoulder, and…”

Without further ado, Spike vamped out again. “Oh, I think I bloody well can,” he lisped. “Yeah,” he went on, when they all shrieked, gasped, or leaped back in horror. “Just so everyone knows, I’m real. Fucking sods.” He hefted the chit a little higher onto his shoulder. She might only weigh eight and a half stone soaking wet on a good day, but she was like carrying a limp bag of sleeping snakes, lolling about the way she was. “And you drugged her insensible and spent who the fuck knows how long telling her she was insane for believing in us. Perk on that for a bit, you mindless automatons.” He narrowed his gaze to flay the doctor with his eyes. “Haldol and Lorazepam.  _ Now _ .”

The doctor backed toward the cabinets behind him, hands shaking and eyes riveted on Spike’s demonic visage. “Uh… What doses… I’ve heard of her case, but I’m not familiar with the particulars of…”

Spike rattled off the doses he’d seen on the charts now rolled up and snugged in an inside pocket of his duster. “Make it quick, mate, or you’re the next one on my list of people to exsanguinate in this fine establishment. I’m on a deadline, here. Dawn’s only a few hours away, yeah?”

Moments later, still shaking like a leaf, the white-coated creature had shoved a couple of nondescript bottles across the counter in his direction, while the rest of the folk in scrubs cowered back away from him in a gaggle by the coffee machine and stared with wide eyes. 

“Cheers,” Spike replied, caught them up round the grips of the lids, shoved them in another duster pocket one by one, and with a nod, was off. “If you tell me where’s the closest exit, I won’t have to kill anyone on my way out. You wanna tell me where that is? There’s a lad.”

“R…r…right down that hall and to the right, there’s an…n emergency…”

Nice. It would set off the fire alarms, maybe drown out any response that might come of the panic button this lot would no doubt set off the instant he’d left their immediate vicinity. “Appreciate it. Have a nice night, all.” Christ, he needed a fag. What the fuck was he doing, anyway, rescuing a sodding Slayer from a bleeding psych ward and planning to rehabilitate the chit and all? Just to fucking fight her?

/Bloody hell, you must want this fight more than even  _ you  _ know, you complete pillock./

Still, what was done was done, and best be off. The DeSoto was hell and gone from here, all the way round on the other side of the bleeding building. It would be quite the trek with the girl over one shoulder, and lucky if she didn’t wake halfway through and set to screaming in panic or some bloody thing, maybe try to take his head off on sheer instinct.

Sometimes he wondered about his own sanity, when he did shit like this on impulse.

***

Why did this school have to be so weird? They’d just gotten everything fixed up again after the whole attack of the ‘gang of insane PCP vampires’, and then some chick who used to be a sacred whatever of the Inca and got turned into a mummy came back to life and tried to suck the lives out of half the guys in school. And honestly, Cordy couldn’t blame the girl. Who wouldn’t rather stay young and beautiful and go on dates, than turn back into a wrinkly old mummy? Also, the girl was way strong, and was a ‘chosen one’, which kinda sounded a lot like being a Slayer. “So, give it to me straight, Tweed-man. How many Slayers who got ‘The Call’ over the ocean from your Council got help from you people?”

Giles hesitated, dithering slightly with his glasses. “Well, ah… a few did in fact get missed, what with one thing and the other. The Council certainly couldn’t manage to insert Watchers into every culture in the world…”

“That’s what I thought.”

Cordelia officially felt a little worse after that, when she took out Umpata. Not a ton, because of course there could only be One Girl, and if anyone was gonna be the It-Girl around Sunnydale, it was gonna be her. /After all, I worked for it./ 

But she did feel a little bad. 

Just a scoche. For maybe, like, five minutes.

***

“You brought us the Sunshine as a toy surprise,” Dru murmured as he tossed the unconscious Slayer down on the bed. She sounded a bit put out about it, actually. “May I eat her, now?”

Spike frowned at his Dark Princess, somewhat taken aback by this swift sideswipe of an approach to his purloined prize. He did suppose that, in her current state, she might still suffice to make Dru strong again; and that was, after all, his first priority, wasn’t it? “You, ah, might not want to sup on this one yet, luv. She’s all loaded up with medications. That lot at the asylum had her drugged out of her gourd. Think we should take a few days to get her off the hard stuff first.” 

Dru rose from the bed to stalk up to him, eyes hard and predatory now. Her nails flashed as she drew a hard score over his cheek, making him hiss as dark blood welled, slow, from the slash she’d made there. “She already has you lyin’ to mummy. I don’t like it…”

He frowned, a bit annoyed at himself to recognize that this was, in fact, true. It was only… It had honestly never occurred to him until he’d landed here that Dru might want to just suck the Slayer down right off. That doing so might be the answer to all their problems, and why the bloody hell else had she led them here? 

And in a way, it would solve most of them. Except…

A flash of memory struck him. Driving back from the sodding institution. Looking back over the low-slung seats of the DeSoto. Seeing the way the street-lights flashed over the unconscious chit slung out over his back seats, amid the bottles and trash littering the corners and wells of it. She’d looked awfully small, and real sodding vulnerable back there; too-pale, and very washed out, in those phosphorescent lights; dark, then ghostly, and vanishing dark again. The scent of her had filled the cab; the potency of Slayer combining with the bitter wrongness of the drugs, and…

Frowning, he shook it off, straightened. “Yeah, well, not lying, per se, pet. Don’t want you all drugged up…” 

Dru merely watched him with illegible eyes that looked somehow both sorrowful and filled with regret, and, /Hell. What do you  _ really _ want, Spike? And how much do you want it?/ ‘Bout time he asked himself that. And the truth was, he wanted  _ her _ . Wanted the chance to fight her. And was that so bleeding wrong? That he wanted to put himself first, just this once? Dru always came first.  _ Always. _ He should get the chance for something of his own. Just this one time. /And you  _ can _ have both. All it will cost is time. We just need to wait a little while. Just a few days, to put her to rights, and I can have my fight, and then Dru can still have her Slayer blood. She can get well, and I can have my battle. The one I’ve been waiting for./

/Just a little time. That’s all. Won’t hurt anything. It’s not like the chit can do for any of us. She can barely fucking stand, doesn’t even know her own bleedin’ name right now./ “But there’s more to it. You know I’ll want the chance to fight her. Can’t do that when she’s three sheets, and has no bloody idea which way’s up…”

“She already has her claws in you…” Sashaying around him, head ducked and fingers bared in his direction, Dru slithered slowly around him in a tango of pulsing frustration. “Know what they want me to do, nasty pixies, but I don’t want to, do I?” And she hissed like a frustrated teakettle. “Want to kill her, my knight, before she can take you deeper. Drink down the Sunshine and swallow her up, put her out before you can be burnt up…” 

/Oh, bloody hell./ Sometimes Dru’s contradictory visions were enough to drive him barmy. “I’m not gonna get burnt up by this bitty chit, Dru,” Spike snapped, abruptly pushed to his wits’ end by irritation. He’d had the hell of a long and frustrating night, and he was knackered. “Look. She can’t even stand, doesn’t even remember what the bloody hell she is. She couldn’t hurt a fly. Right now she’s as dangerous as a mosquito. So here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to have one of the minions set her up a nice bedroom; a locking one, where I can keep an eye on her, but where she can’t run off till she’s worked her way off the sodding meds they put her on, yeah? And in a few days, once she’s come down a bit, I’ll remind her what she is, have a nice fight with her, and then you can have her, get well, and we’ll be off; back to Greece, or bloody South America, or wherever the hell you want to go next. We’ll paint the town; just you an’ me and the great wide world…”

Dru eyed him sadly, looking suddenly regretful. “My Spike,” she whispered. “Already lost.” And she drew away from him, a wounded noise coming from the back of her throat, in a kind of keening moan. “Made you for me, and now I find it was all a trick. Didn’t make you for me at all. And Daddy’s all wrapped up in the Evening. No room for little Drusilla, anywhere, anymore. Who will stay with Dru and Miss Edith, keep us safe and warm…”

Spike groaned aloud. /Not this bloody nonsense again./ “Look, pet. How about, once I get the chit stowed away in whatever room I’ve put up for her, we settle in and have a nice morning together, just you and me, innit? No minions, no one else about? All I have to do first is make sure none of that load of idiots get close enough to this one to eat her, first…”

Dru turned away from him, pouting. “The bed smells of her.”

With a heavy sigh, Spike picked up the somnolent Slayer, tossed her back over his shoulder. He’d get her set, come back, deal with this mess. 

Which he did, by kicking his current trio of—at the moment, slavering—minions into gear and forcing them into doing his work for him; finding a mattress somewhere, setting up a bit of a sitting area, stealing some sheets and blankets for the unconscious bird, setting her up a bit of a loo and a bath, some dry goods and water bottles to keep her kicking, that sort of thing. /Have to lock her up to keep her safe. From herself, and from these pillocks. But nice. Not another sodding prison. Can’t have her scared out of her bleeding mind again, when she comes to./ 

Once he had the Slayer comfortably installed in the room nextdoor, where he could keep an ear open to make sure she was alive, and that lot weren’t about to sneak in and try to off her, he padlocked the door so they couldn’t get in without the key he clipped to his belt-loop, and headed in to see to his exceedingly discomfited Dark Princess.

Wouldn’t you bloody know it? Dru made him burn the duvet before she’d let him touch her.

***

Buffy hazed back into consciousness, into a scene that made no sense. Not that her senses were really trustworthy as a general rule, but…

Confusion reigned. One moment, she had been in her room. Things had been normal. As normal as anything ever was, anymore, anyway. Then… something… had happened—she couldn’t quite recall what—and now she was in…

Was this her room? It had changed a lot. Had she been moved? 

It smelled funny. Not… clean and chemical-y. More like… dust and dankness. A little like rust, and maybe mold?

Instead of the standard overhead lights there was one lamp, near to her left hand, on some sort of battered-looking wooden nightstand. She flipped it on automatically, fumbling for the switch on the old-school, glass object with the canvas shade—glass!—and saw…

The shadows danced like they were alive, to show her the wider space, which also didn’t make any sense. There were… girders? in the walls. The spaces between them contained no windows. No light trickled in from the outside. Not that it mattered. Something in her bones told her it was nighttime. Near dawn, but still…

“Jonas? Are you there?”

No sound from beyond the doors. 

“Monte?” The night guy was almost always nearby, in the wee hours. He was the main guy for her ward. He would knock, look in if she was having trouble. She could ask him what was real, if she could get him to come around and…

No answer from beyond her door… which, now that she focused on it, looked different too. Dark-colored, not painted light-gray, and without a window in it. No one moved outside, and she didn’t see a camera. 

She didn’t see much of anything, actually. The spaces in the walls were taken up by blank wallboard of some kind; featureless, hard-looking. Dark-grayish. 

She examined the things closer to hand, seeking some point of commonality with the normal, the mundane, the real. She was lying on a… a strangely soft surface. It was a bed—sort of—in that it had blankets, a pillow, a sheet… One on the bottom, but not one on top. She lifted the coverlet, found another blanket beneath, as if to give proof against the pervasive chill in a room that did not feel at all climate-controlled… and gave a start as she realized that the sheet she had felt, sliding beneath her body, was not cheap, off-white, oft-bleached cotton, but some kind of satin-blend in a dark blue color. /What…/

Pushing up and away from the bed, she threw the blankets off the rest of the way, and…

There were no restraints there. Not at the bottom, not at the sides. 

It didn’t make any sense.

Also, the second she was upright, she swayed. And she just now realized that her temple hurt. Had she done something stupid again, like tried to get out, or… “Dr. Richards? I’m sorry. I must’ve…”

A flash of a pale, feral, animalistic face cut off her words, striking from memory like a snake from the darkness. A face she recognized, in type if not in person; complete with fangs, looming over a red button-down shirt and a dark, leather coat.

“No!”

Scrabbling back to the head of the bed, Buffy huddled against the chill wall, wrapping her arms around her knees and fighting for stability while she hyperventilated. Maybe if she bled into the walls between the girders, was absorbed, she would go back to the place where things made sense, and there were no… /There are no vampires there arenovampires therearenovampires…/

Except… She had never been in a room like this one. Not at any point, during her stay at the hospital. They didn’t give patients things like glass lamps, or beds without restraints, all decked out in soft, slippery, nice-on-your-skin sheets, and…

/I’m imagining this I’m imagining all of it, I’m having a psychotic break I need my meds!/ “Hey!” she heard herself yell, shouting over the noise, the terror building inside her head. “If anyone’s out there, I need my meds! I’m in trouble! Jonas? Dr. Richards?”

There was no answer to her cries. Only echoes.

***

“I don’t like her. She’s already got you besotted.”

Spike looked up, blinking Dru back into his awareness. He was having the hell of a difficult time focusing on anything else but the bloody racket going on across the way, as the poor bint in there came down, went through her withdrawals, fought the so-called demons inside her own head. It was enough to drive  _ him _ barmy, listening to the fucked-off chit screech, cry, bewail her outcast state and all the rest.

She was currently begging for meds, because she had no fucking clue what was real. Poor twig. Mess she was in could rend even the heart of a soddin’ monster like him.

Still, he had to deal with his Princess first. She was on a real bleedin’ tear, too.

Shaking his head, he faced his sire down. “Christ, Dru, I’m not besotted!” How the hell could he be, listening to that? He was honestly stunned by the accusation. “I want to  _ fight _ her! And I can’t bloody well do that when she’s limp as a boned fish and too scared to listen to her soddin’ instincts, can I?”

Dru was not best pleased that he was keeping the Slayer about, trying to revivify the chit. More than that. Weak or no, his Princess was a right wildcat about it, had torn into him proper last morn, before falling into an exhausted, fitful slumber, filled with visions, damnitall. And here she was, awake again this evening to tell him all about every bloody one of them. “You have the Sunshine here, trying to halve your loyalty to me.” She went on hissing, then, as if she’d been set to boil. “ _ My _ knight.  _ Mine _ , still!” She made a moue, began to pout. “And Daddy is moving so slowly; ever so slowly, to become one with the Evening. Nasty spark still in him, so I cannot go…” And she began to weep, in rending sobs. “No place for me, ever. No place for Drusilla. Nasty pixies, forcing me to do things I don’t want to do, and lying, telling me Daddy will come back…”

/Bloody fuck./ Catching her up in his arms, he held her, caressed her shaking shoulders, stroked her hair. /Sodding ‘Daddy’. Always your bleeding Daddy. Dru, why do you let him break your heart the way you do? Christ./ “Could we dispense with the sob-stories about bloody Angelus and his upstate Slayer, please, Dru, for God’s sake?” he asked softly. “He’s gone, pet, you’re safe with me, and I have enough to be getting on with down here with this one, yeah?”

Dru pulled back from his embrace, weeping cut off as if with a tap, to stare at him fiercely. “No safe place to stand when everything’s in motion.”

/Oh, bloody hell./ “I’ve been your safe place for six score bloody years, love.”

Dru gave him a shove. He released her, shocked by the sudden alteration in moods, and watched her in amazement as she backed away. “Too tender with her, you are. Breaking your vows. Have to remind you whose favor you carry into battle. Too soon for you to change your colors, my knight. Your standards are wavering…”

/Oh, for fuck’s sake./ Rolling his eyes, Spike sighed and turned to grab up the bloke he’d brought home for her to eat, hefted him over onto the bed. The tosser moaned, half-drained. “Here. You finish him whenever you want to, love. I’ve an errand to run, yeah?” Standing, he exited the bedroom to nod at the minion standing outside. Stephen, or whatever the bloody hell his name was. Who cared, anyway? They were interchangeable as mice in a maze. “Make sure she eats, will you?” He showed the full extent of his fangs, let the bastard feel the strength of his years. It would be enough intimidation, considering this asshat was on the south side of maybe thirty. “And stay away from the Slayer’s room, if you wanna remain in this world. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

Twenty minutes later found him back in the demon bar in Carson, jammed into yet another dodgy bar-booth and chatting with a few blokes of the horned persuasion about where he might find any local representatives of the Watchers’ Council thereabouts. “Have something to say to the wankers, is the thing.” 

/Actually, that ought to be their name, come to that. Council of Wankers has a nice ring to it./

He wasn’t sure if that lot knew their bird was still alive, though he had his suspicions. Any road, if they did, he was about to see to it they forgot she’d ever existed. What was to come was between her and himself, from here on out, let no one put them asunder. None of their bloody business, since they’d let the poor chit waste away the way they had, in that sodding place. /And if they didn’t know she was there, and my sticking my neb in lets them know about it… well, still, by the end of our conversation, they’ll know the score./ “Just putting the word out, yeah?” he informed the Kinnick across from him, and pushed the slightly smoking shot glass a little further away from him, toward the creature. What Kinnickin drank was between them and the bottle. “You hear anything, you let me know. My nest is down by the wharf.”

“Sure thing,” the Kinnick answered, and tossed back the shot with every evidence of relish. Smacking his horny lips, he set the thing down. “How about another?”

“Maybe when you get me what I want.” Pushing himself away from the sticky, redolent table, Spike moved toward the door. /Hell. No wonder the bastards can drink acid or what-have-you, with mouths like that. More like a soddin’ beak./

Mission accomplished for the evening, and it near dawn and the lot, he was about to head back. He had, after all, seeded his message to at least seven different creatures in three different demon haunts. Word would spread from them outward through the entire local underground. He would get results within the next couple of days; a week at most. 

If he even had a week to spare, considering Dru’s current mood.

Frowning, he started toward the abandoned warehouse… and stopped the DeSoto at one point along the way, attention caught at the sight of one darkened storefront boasting ‘a fine selection of women’s apparel’. 

Hell. The Slayer might not be with them long, but she definitely couldn’t fight him in those bloody pajamas. They’d likely split at the seams mid-kick, with how thin the damned things were, and then the poor chit would be so busy worrying about her modesty, she’d forget all about the sodding battle royale. It would bugger everything up. Not to mention that if he wanted her sane and in possession of herself, she needed to be reminded of who she had been before. Not bloody likely if she continued to go about dressed like a patient, or a bleeding convict. 

Pulling round back, into the closest alley, he lock-picked his way into the store’s rear man-door with swift economy, stepping over a homeless sot as he did so. Could have had a nice meal whilst en route, but he had little time for that sort of thing at the moment. Any road, the bloke would’ve been anemic, possibly filled with drugs, and he didn’t have the patience for facing Dru down while high off of whatever speed folks in these parts used to keep awake so no one accosted them in the unfriendly night. As if it bloody helped the poor nits, with bloody monsters like him about. 

“Boo!” he announced as he passed the fellow, just to be doing something. 

The creature pulled back to huddle into his sacking, terrified.

Chuckling, Spike finished his lock-picking and slipped into the store. He could have simply burst in, of course, did he want to start the fuss sooner, but he wanted a few moments to find what he’d come here to gather. Slipping in this way meant they’d have less on the cameras, which in turn meant they’d not know right off which door to go to. 

Ignoring the alarm—he’d be in and out long before the police might arrive, and anyway, if they arrested anyone, it might be the bloke in the alley, who’d get a nice, warm night indoors before prints exonerated him—he set about finding a few nice changes of clothing that would fit his captive Slayer. 

/No. Not captive. Guest. She was a captive before. She’s my guest until she’s fit to fight; then she’s my opponent. Worth more than to be called a captive. As to her size…/ Bringing the chit to mind, remembering the feel of her body in his hands, he swiftly scanned the racks, considering colors that might best suit her.

He nodded to himself as he made his swift and economical choices. This blouse, that pair of trousers, that skirt… It had a split in it, to one side, so it would be good for fighting. Oh, and she’d want knickers, since no doubt she had been supplied none in a place like that, or unflattering ones. He swiped a packet of those, guessing at the size and finding ones that looked cute and would make her feel good, on top of her game. The better she felt, the better she’d fight. /Right, and she’ll want bathing stuff, I suppose, if she’s going to get into new togs./ He grabbed up a few items to aid her in the business. One didn’t spend over a century caring for a woman without understanding the sorts of things chits needed to feel special. /And I s’pose she’ll need shoes…/

He brought himself up short of finishing his impromptu shopping trip when he caught the hint of distant sirens. No time for all that, and he might choose wrong. He hadn’t got a good look at her feet; and besides, there’d be plenty of time later for things like making sure she was shod for fighting. She was still coming down from the sauce. /I’ll get her those next, after I have time to ask her her size. Best be off./

Dodging out of the rear door, he threw his acquisitions into the passenger seat of the DeSoto and exited the alley at a jaunty clip, aware that by the time the police arrived they might see him leaving, but couldn’t be sure if the person in the departing vehicle was the one who’d been inside. /Well, if I wanted to hide my light under a bushel, and leave slow and casual-like./ Still, some might follow him as a matter of course, so might as well just begin as he meant to go on, and give them a merry chase.

Granted, police Interceptors could outstrip his old girl’s aging engine easily, which meant he no doubt ought to shoot for discretion (better part of valor and all that rubbish). Where was the fun in that, though? He could do with a nice, stiff police-chase to get the blood pumping, as it were. Aside from which, none of this lot had his careless attitude; nor yet his willingness to turn round, stop, take a bullet if necessary, and eat them to make his escape. 

Which he did, at least once, before making his way back to Long Beach. There was more than one way to get a meal. And police were honestly rather terrible shots when confronted point blank with the visage of an unexpected monster. 

He never even took a bullet before he had his supper.

Entering the warehouse, he nodded expansively at his doorman. “Morning, all. How went the night?”

The two minions tasked with holding the door exchanged uncertain glances. “Uh,” one began, looking anxious.

/Well, fuck./ “Alright. What did she do?” They had that look about them. The one that said Dru had done something bloody uncalled-for and frankly bizarre, or at least worrying; something they had not felt equipped to handle.

“She, uh, made… I mean, the guy she was supposed to just, you know, eat?”

/Oh, for fucksake…/ Throwing down his ‘purchases’, Spike headed for the bedroom. “Dru!” he shouted, at his wits’ end yet again. “For chrissake, do you have to make a sodding fledge every time we have a fucking fight?” /I swear to Christ; this is getting so bloody old!/ She did this every time she was out of sorts with him, or they’d had a row. It was, as far as he could tell, both a sort of passive-aggressive way to punish him, and a method by which she could leave a mess for him to clean up. 

In this case, it was also a very clear protest; her equivalent of making a point. A statement, if you will, in the vein of, ‘if you have a pet, then I’ll have one too’. /Except you have no capacity to care for a soddin’ dependent, luv, which always ends up making the minion my bloody lookout. Mine to care for, to train, to keep in one damned piece./ And he hadn’t the sodding time. Not when he also had a Slayer to put to rights, on top of managing Dru herself! /No fear!/ 

He opened the door to the room with a caution born of experience… and saw about what he’d expected. Dru stood just inside, cooing over the new baby she’d made; currently dead, of course, and dangling still from his makeshift bonds. The tosser would not wake for another two and a half days, but there was a markedly different smell to a corpse had just been drained and left to dangle, compared to one had been marked out as a home for a new vamp. The latter, for one, was filled up with vamp’s blood, rather than simply drained and left to rot. 

There was dead, and there was dead and working on the next life; burgeoning and en route to rebirth. “Dammit, Dru, we don’t have the bloody time.”

“So sweet,” she murmured, dancing around her soiled creation. “Need to find a patch of ground; under the stars. Need to plant the baby in the soil like a seed, let him grow, let him sprout. Like a blooming nightflower…”

Ever the traditionalist, she was. With the faintest shudder, Spike sighed and pushed his way further into the room. “Sorry, love,” he informed her, and bent to wrench a makeshift stake from a tatty stool one of the minions had dragged in from wherever the hell to grace their boudoir. “No soil in here for your nightflower. Best to let it die before it blooms.” And without further ado, he stabbed the as-yet-unfulfilled vampire through the unbeating heart. It couldn’t come to anything if it was already transfixed. Needed the heart, they did, to be the focal-point of the transformation, for the transition from human to demon. If the heart wasn’t there to hold the new blood in place, they simply reverted back to what they had been when the putative sire had drained them. A corpse, and nothing more.

The second his stake punctured the heart there came a sort of slithering noise; almost a sigh, though one without breath. The body before them seemed to sag even further… and then, all at once, it lost cohesion. Lost that… sense about it, that it was more than just dead, as the blood Dru had given the bloke drained slowly out of the wound round the stake. 

It did not dust, of course. Not yet, since it had not yet transitioned into the home of a proper demon. It merely… settled in a strange way that seemed more permanent than the sagging posture a body normally took on… and rigor immediately set in, something that never occurred with an incipient fledge. 

In that very instant, the corpse ceased to smell like a vampire-yet-to-be. And in one moment it paled, ripening immediately to the flavor of an overripe corpse. 

Shrieking like a teakettle, Dru turned on him, flung herself on him, beating at his chest and wailing. “Mine! He was mine! You have yours and I’ll have mine! You can’t take my toys from me!”

Spike sighed and caught her up by her forearms to save himself the clawing he was about to receive. He was well-versed in this scene, knew how to play it out by rote, now. Keeping her by the wrists, he pulled her in, cradled her against him, struggling as he did to ignore the growing stench of the hapless not-fledge behind her. Putridity was always accelerated whenever they rode this merry-go-round. “I’m sorry, pet. But you can’t keep up with them when you make them, and I haven’t the time right now.” It wouldn’t do, of course, to tell her that he’d felt no more remorse in staking her ‘baby’ than he’d have felt in stomping on a spider. She’d only gnash her teeth and tear at her hair and accuse him of being a thief, and all the rest.

It was bad enough anyway. She was raking at him wherever she could reach with her nails now, her demon out and vicious. In the end he had to push her away in self-defense, throw her gently toward the bed. “Come off it, Dru. I love you, but you know it’s true. You can’t manage a fledge. Not right now.” He sighed, frustrated by the entire sodding situation. “You’re weak, pet. Maybe later, you can have another, once you’re well…”

“You won’t let me get well,” she pouted, lying on the bed where she’d fallen, looking entirely too put out considering they’d done this Christ knew how many times before. 

/I won’t… What the bloody hell?/ Of course he’d let her get well! That was the  _ point _ of all this! He’d get his fight, she’d get her blood, and they’d trip on their merry way! “Look, pet. I’m that sorry you feel put out by all this, but it’s gonna be over soon, Princess, and then we’ll leave this bloody city, go to Sao Paulo, or wherever you want to go next. I just need you to be patient for…”

“Been out cossetting her, getting her presents, brought nothing for me… Had to make my own…”

/Oh, hell./ And of course now she felt less-than. /Fuck./ He should’ve known better. After all, he’d been on the other side of this equation often enough, with Dru lavishing affection on some prat minion-of-the-week or likely demon-nasty, and him left to lump it and wank alone in some corner. Not that he was having an affair with the Slayer, but he knew that when one had a project or hobby that took up the majority of one’s time and focus… /You have to make sure to let your significant other know they’re still the center of your world, or your primary relationship will suffer the consequences. And yet here I am, like a ponce, dancing attendance on the chit down the hall, and not giving my Dark Princess her just due. Nit./ 

“Look, pet...” he reached, scrabbling in his mind for how to make her feel special, fix his bloody stupid faux pas. What the hell had he been thinking? /You weren’t, was what happened, you nit!/ “How about we go… dancing in a few; just you and me? We’ll set up the greatroom of this place all nice, put on some music…” He crouched in front of her, smiled, fingering her chin. And looking on her, his black mood fled. God, he loved her, loved indulging her every mad whim. “You’ll tell me what stars are above us… We’ll tell the world, I’ll dip and twirl you to your heart’s content…”

She smiled then; a tremulous thing. “Spin and spin and spin; till the world ends…”

“That’s right, kitten.”

“Alright. I like it when you’re still my knight.”

“That’s what I like to hear. You just get ready then. Dress up nice, in all your frills.” He kissed the tip of her nose as he rose. “I’ll be back in just a mo’, and we’ll have our party…”

She eyed him sadly as he felt about in his pockets, seeking the pill bottles. He had to dose the Slayer; three-quarters of the amount she had taken the last time, when she was at the psych ward. Then, next round, he’d ply her with half-doses. Then the next time, a quarter dose; down and down, slowly stepping her down to naught. /And I have to feed and water her/ he supposed. /And shove the clothing in, and hope she’s not looking toward the door. And the bathing things, make sure she doesn’t panic into damaging herself, before we can have our sodding fight. Can’t take her on if she ends up paralyzed trying to get out, or summat./

/Then, I’m all Dru’s, till next round./

Dru watched him without words as he turned for the door, but her eyes glittered oddly as she followed him. “Mine… for only a little while longer,” she murmured sadly.

Frowning, Spike turned back briefly to shake his head. “You’re talking nonsense, Dru. I’ve always been yours. I’ll always  _ be _ yours.”

“That’s what you say. Doesn’t make it real.”

***

None of it made any sense. Things just kept appearing in the room. She would wake, trembling and confused, slicked with sweat, her surroundings whirling, to find something new had shown up in her periphery. Food. Drink. Nice stuff, like really high-class protein bars; the kind you got from high-end, boutique sports stores, and, like, seaweed packets, and aloe juice with guava. Crazy stuff like that; things from, like, Trader Joe’s. Completely random food, but nothing that needed to be cooked, or had to be eaten with any utensils… and definitely nothing like she had eaten the entire time she had been at the hospital. 

Was this the hospital? It didn’t seem like…

This time around, it was clothes. Clothes, and… bath stuff?

Sweating, damp, aching all over, she stumbled to the end of the bed. To the chair, there by the door, where all the deliveries were made. Head spinning a little, feeling muzzy, she ran her hand down along the edge of the smooth, cool linen of the skirt, the really cute halter. Bright colors. Cheerful. In her size. Felt around, the seams, and…

There was a packet of new underwear beneath them. No shoes, but… /This can’t be the hospital. Nowhere there looks like that; and I don’t get to wear… this stuff there. What’s…/

At the base of the chair, beckoning, were the other items. Actual, nice, bath items, and... 

She could have a  _ bath _ . A  _ real _ one; slow, alone, no one watching her to make sure she wasn’t going to hurt herself or whatever. Not a fast shower with someone standing just around the corner, there on the other side of the wall, or… And then, new clothes.

New  _ clothes _ . 

This couldn’t be real. None of it…

She tested the door again, though she knew it wouldn’t open. That was the one thing that this place, whatever it was, and the hospital had in common. She was in a locked room. A really nice one, but locked. What they didn’t have in common was that she was being supplied with… /With things being shoved in here while I’m not looking. Which…  _ when? _ I’m not sleeping a lot, or…/

/Am I?/ 

Confusion swamped her. She had no idea what to do. What was real, what was going on. It all felt so strange. Her brain was doing somersaults trying to come up with some sort of baseline or standard for what to make of the situation. The one real thing she had had to depend on was her room at the hospital. Jonas and Michael and Monte doing their rounds to give her an idea of passing time, Dr. Richards coming in once a day to tell her which way was up. Right now she had none of that, and that was…

Terrifying. 

Everything felt shaky, too; like her brain was missing something; reaching for something. And then there was that  _ thing _ that had happened before everything else changed; the thing she couldn’t, shouldn’t remember, because it couldn’t be real. She had to have dreamed it. It was the only option. She had to figure this out, figure out how to…

Panic swamped her briefly, and again, in cycles. /I’m locked in a room. It’s not the hospital. I saw… a not-real thing, before I came here…/ 

Her head spun. 

/Is any of this real? Is this food I’m eating… God, it tastes good./ 

Some things felt more stable, here and there, when the spinning stopped, and it felt like she landed with her feet solid on the floor of this… wherever it was. Everything here  _ felt _ so very real. None of it felt imagined. Like she was… gaining some kind of traction, with every second that passed, every time she woke… or, ‘woke’, somehow. She was sweating less, feeling less clammy, and the whirling was slowing, the feeling of having no idea what was and wasn’t actually happening around her fading with each skip. /It  _ should _ be real. This… should…  _ Should _ it?/ 

/But no. What’s real is the hospital, and the bland food, and the pajamas, and the bed, and…/ 

/Which means none of this should be…/ 

But she  _ wanted _ it to be. Even with the locked door, it was all so much nicer. She wanted it to be, and that was bad, bad, bad. Had she made this all up as a way to deal with the reality she was living, because it was so much worse, after so long, than accepting the reality she had been forced to understand was the only real truth? Had she finally really gone around the bend or whatever?

/Is this real? Is any of this…/ 

God, did it matter right now, or should she just enjoy it? 

/Bad, bad, bad…/ 

She fingered the clothes left behind, while munching absently on a tasty, high-class food bar filled with soft protein and cranberries, her body screaming for the flavors, the tart fruityness… and contemplated a bath; over there, in the tub that had been installed in what looked like some kind of converted, office-y bathroom that had once housed multiple toilets. It had been cannibalized somehow, one of the sinks torn away, hoses attached to the hot and cold outlets and run down into the tub that had been dragged into the room, over a floor drain thing, and… /And would it kill me to enjoy the bath, even if I’m making it up?/ 

She had used to fantasize, when she was younger—or, at least, she thought she had—about having a jacuzzi tub, with jets. Fantasized about visiting a spa for a day. Now, this—this crappy tub situated in some garbagey old bathroom—looked like nirvana to her. /I used to have such high standards./

Out of nowhere, something rebelled in her. Something that hadn’t had the energy, or the strength, or something, to rebel in so long she had thought it long beaten down, dead, buried. /It doesn’t  _ matter _ , dammit. There’s a difference between being insane and having an imagination. I can accept imagining. I used to fantasize, and there wasn’t anything wrong with it!  _ Everybody _ does that! They didn’t send me to the hospital for  _ that! _ I can accept I was just imagining it if it goes away! It’s just a  _ bath! _ /

It  _ didn’t _ matter, and she would take it for now. At least this imagining was a nice one; the first nice imagining she’d had in a while. Probably that was dangerous thinking, but some of her past had to have been real, right? And that had included shopping, and getting nice new clothes like these, and having nice, warm baths, not quick, uncomfortable showers with some orderly standing two feet away timing her, and… And god, she hadn’t shaved anything in she had no idea how long, it would be so nice if a razor would appear, but since there wasn’t…

Well, the thing she was imagining couldn’t be perfect… /Am I imagining it if it’s not? If I was imagining it, wouldn’t I imagine, like, a tub with jets in a swanky spa place, with a razor and someone to massage my shoulders?/

The logic flitted in, swooped away again, lost in the pure pleasure of the realization that at least there was body wash, and a new loofah, and a washcloth, and facial scrub, and she could attack her skin and be all alone for the first time since she couldn’t remember, and make herself glow, and take the time to really feel  _ clean _ . 

Well. As clean as anybody could feel who couldn’t shave their legs and pits, anyway. And she could really use a bikini wax, but she would deal. This was… It was better than she had had for so long. No utilitarian bar of raw, drying, antibacterial soap without moisturizer; because there was that, too, for after. And her skin was probably such a mess, and this was… /Oh, God, it’s an apricot scrub, with  _ oatmeal _ , and  _ lanolin _ , and  _ aloe _ …/ 

Jeez; the body wash was jasmine, and the shampoo was cucumber-melon. She was in  _ heaven _ . 

As she ran the water, she shook with anticipation. And as she sank into the tub, opened the containers to let the scents pervade, wash away the faint aroma of mildew, she felt like an actual  _ girl _ .

And later, as she put on the clothes, moisturized and almost pampered-feeling, she stood in front of the lone mirror left behind in the converted bathroom, and looked at herself in the reflective surface. Contemplated her lank hair, her washed-out face, and considered her new reality (reality?). Nothing had faded away mid-bath. She was fresh and clean and actually feeling good, and…

/What is even happening, right now?/

Her hand wandered down, to caress the seam of her new skirt, toyed with the hem. 

/Is  _ this _ real?/

* * *  
  
  
  
  
  
We shall see how spending time in the vicinity of a bunch of vamps, including ones Spike and Dru's ages, will impact Buffy's mental health and belief in herself (or, heck; how long she'll spend just being in a confused haze, poor kid); how Dru will deal with the way 'the Pixies' are pulling her in multiple directions, and her resentment therefrom, and how long Spike will manage to paddle around in his nice, personal little Egyptian river when it comes to his motivations.  
  
Thank you, everyone! You're all amazing!  
  
  
  



	6. Girl, Resumed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh... Spike's starting to cotton on to his problem.   
> Buffy's starting to wonder about him more than a little, as her head starts to clear.  
> Dru really, REALLY resents the position the pixies have put her in.  
> And, things are starting to get more interesting back in Sunnydale.  
> Hehe.
> 
> These continue to be long, because trying to figure out how to fit everything I need to into the segments I have available is tough. One hopes it'll even out in a chapter or two. Or not. We'll see. (Speaking of, I finally settled down and decided how I was going to number these chapters. Sorry for the confusion. I was apparently having an internal debate and forgot to finish it, or something. Previous chapters have been edited to reflect a numbering system that actually works.)

** Section 6B: Girl, Resumed **

Okay, A, fratboys were not, in fact, better dates than high-school boys, whether she had officially run through the entire catalog of available, dateable children here at this school or not. Not when said fratboys wanted to turn Queen C into snake-kibble.

And, B, why did she have to be grateful to Xander Harris, of all nerds, for coming to help her, and clumsily hooking up with Angel to find her and get her out of shackles—yes, actual shackles on a wall!—before a giant snake could eat her? Because, okay; ever since the whole substitute bug-lady thing, he’d been annoying enough. Angel using him as a fake snack to get in good with that guy Spike had put things back a little, and he’d kept his distance for a while, which had been nice, but ever since the whole Umpata fiasco (the girl had actually really hit on him, and she was indisputably hot, which, Cordy really couldn’t see what the attraction had been, but to each their own)... Anyway, since then Xander had been all up her butt again, trying to fawn all over her because she was his own personal savior and yadda. 

It really sucked to have to admit that at least this time his obsessing over her had actually kinda saved her life.

Also, ew, much, that Angel admitted that he could literally find her anywhere she went in town, because he knew not only her personal scent, but the specific smell of her blood,  _ and _ the, like, unique signature of her heartbeat or some craziness. 

How the heck could you know the sound of one person’s heartbeat as opposed to someone else’s? Like, stalker, much?

But also, again, saved her life, so, what could she say? Even if she was still kind of teed off at him over the whole 'never told me about the first Slayer he followed around' thing.

Lucky for her, the chick was probably dead.

Speaking of dead things, snake-boy had been quite literally opening his mouth to eat her head off when Angel had gotten there to rip Cordy loose, and Xander had tossed her that sword, so… like, all she really could do in that circumstance was say ‘thank you’. Which, ugh.

It was like she was acquiring some kind of… team. Which was… weird.

***

Word was passed to Spike regarding the whereabouts of a nearby Council flunky along about the fifth day from when he’d gotten his pet Slayer ensconced in the warehouse. He’d just managed to settle Dru down from another raging fit over his refusal to see the chit dead and in a nice chalice for her whimsy, which made it a difficult time to step away. It was the hell of a thing, being suddenly responsible for two testy, half-mad birds, one of them just barely coming out of months of drug-haze and uncertain if he was even real, and the other flip-flopping at any moment from thinking coming here to nick the Slayer from the hospital was a bloody great idea to thinking it was the worst thing they’d ever remotely considered. 

Hell if he knew why the situation had Dru so at sixes and sevens, but it wasn’t as if he could just chuck it all in and give the chit to his sire as yet. Fuck it all, he had only just stepped the poor ghost of a Slayer down to near naught on one of the meds! It had taken this many days of plying her with the things, a halved dose at a time, alternating first one and then the other at a lowered dose, and then stopping one at that level and stepping the other down, and again, and again. Painstaking fucking process that it was, and the poor twig in there shaking over it the whole sodding time. She was probably still a chemical soup! “Oh, give over, Dru!”

“You don’t want me to have her!” Dru hissed back, her voice backed with a low growl.

/Oh, Christ./ Drawing closer, risking unlife and limb to do so, Spike caught her chin in his hand and kissed her nose… and fended off her claws to catch them by both wrists just shy of her carving out his eyeballs. “Kitten, you can have her just as soon as it’s safe. Now, c’mon. Lie down and have a rest. You’re working yourself up to a frenzy, and I need you calm, so daddy can go and see about these Council twats before they come in here trying to get into our business. I don’t want them bothering you, pet. Not while you’re this weak…”

“Miss Edith isn’t pleased with you, my knight. Wouldn’t be weak if you made sure there weren’t so many baubles all lit and bright on the string.”

/Whatever the bloody hell that means./ Sometimes even he didn’t have the sodding patience to figure out Dru’s babble. “Well, Miss Edith will have to sit tight for a bit anyway, luv. Need to see about these wankers before they come here, and then I’ll be back.” Kissing her knuckles lovingly, he dropped her hands and stepped away, checked his belt loop for the key to the Slayer’s bit of protective custody. Always best to make sure no one had divested him of it before he departed. Over the years, his Dru had learned a bit of sensual sleight of hand; had made it into something of a game, she had. 

The last thing he wanted was to come back to an open room and a slaughtered Slayer, even if it meant his sire would be put to rights. Hell, even if he doubted the few remaining drugs in her system would harm Dru all that much. /Might just do her some sodding good./ 

Promptly lambasting himself for the uncharitable thought, he sighed and rounded the bend, heading for the locked and barred door. That scenario could come soon enough. They were alright here, for now; and anyway, the game wasn’t played out yet. “Take care of her,” he directed as he left, and passed his minions.

“Sure.”

“And don’t bring her anybody. I’ve already seen to it she’s fed.”

“O…okay…”

Leaving the tossers in his dust, Spike halted briefly, as was his wont these days, to listen at the Slayer’s accommodation—no dice, though, the chit within was probably sleeping it off—before exiting to settle into the DeSoto. Within minutes he was headed for Chatsworth, of all improbably-named suburbs, just south of Van Nuys. Wasn’t it just like the sods to have settled in literally a few miles from where their Slayer had been interred at a sodding psychiatric facility. No doubt riding horses and swimming in pools and doing all that other sort of suburban American West rubbish, while the poor chit languished into insanity only a few doors down the bleeding street from them.

The two berks set up to watch over the former Los Angeles Slayer were set up in a sixties-style split-level, nesting amid a load of more modest ramblers and raised ranch-style homes. After studying his approach for a bit, Spike decided to obtain his invite to said housing via the uninformed offices of what would no doubt be a live-in housekeeper or what-have-you; the sort willing to tender him entry in exchange for her life. However, the one such who answered the door did not appear able to proffer him an invitation—no doubt the bloke wasn’t a live-in—thus necessitating his getting creative.

He drained the butler who’d answered the door, for being an unhelpful prick, then headed round back. This, then, was where his luck began to change. Handily for him, one of the bellends from the Council was just getting back from an evening ride. He caught the ponce coming in off the riding trails backing every house hereabouts, running between the long drag called, of all things, Devonshire Street, and the Cretaceous massif at the north end of the town called Stoney Point. The network of horseback trails fed into nearly every upper-class neighborhood, lying between the ritzy backyards and the train tracks leading up into Simi Valley, and thus made for a back way into every property with little fuss. /Not much worried about violent crime, this lot. Seem to have forgotten about the Manson Family goin’ Helter Skelter on ‘em just up the soddin’ road a few years back./

Humans had such short bloody memories.

The scent of manure and hay all round him, Spike secreted himself between corral and back fence, and waited for his moment. Trail dust, the aromas of eucalyptus and creosote bush, honeysuckle and the faintest hint of tar from the nearby railway siding; all of it coated man and horse as the fellow backed his mount to the gate to close it and stepped off to lead the creature in to its stable. He seemed not to notice the way the animal rolled his eyes and danced anxiously, lathered body shuddering at the scent of a dangerous predator. “What’s got into you, old girl?”

“Doesn’t like the smell of me, I reckon,” Spike informed him, and seized the bastard by the throat. 

The git dropped the reins, leaving his mount to back away, snorting and pawing the air. 

“How about you and I go find somewhere nicer to talk, yeah?” he asked the fellow, and nodded toward the paddock gate leading to the backyard and the house. There, on the back porch, the other of the two bellends running this establishment had only just noticed that his compatriot was in a spot of trouble, and was rising to his feet from a wicker settee to stare, setting aside a tumbler of scotch or summat as he did so. “Don’t sing out,” Spike called as they crossed the yard, “or your lad’s dead.”

The other Watcher lowered his hand slowly and sank back into his seat, looking bleak.

“Didn’t come here to drain you,” Spike informed them as he joined the turbaned bloke on the porch, and nodded at the one he’d made his hostage to take a seat next to him on the closest poncy chair. “Actually came here to warn you lot.”

“W…warn us? Of wha…”

Catching up the handle of whiskey near to the other fellow’s twitching palm, Spike poured himself a few fingers of the stuff and slugged it down, neat as you please, then nodded at his catch to cease moving before he could finish pulling out the stake or cross or whatever idiot thing he was going for inside his waistcoat. “Here about the Slayer you left to rot in the asylum.” He had to fight not to go into his demon’s face, just thinking of it. Bastards thought themselves innocent! “Seeing as how your being here more or less indicates that you knew exactly where the bint was the entire time, and you did sod all about it, I’m here to tell you that she’s no longer your affair. You’re not to look for her, now she’s been spirited off from the bloody place…”

“I  _ beg _ your pardon!”

Spike slammed his borrowed tumbler down on the bitty table, so hard the wicker crumbled a bit. The tempered glass shattered on one edge, and the entire affair tilted to one side. Both assholes jumped away from him by at least a foot. It was bloody satisfying. “As I was saying,” he continued in measured tones. “You left the poor bird in there to waste away, at the hands of a bunch of hacks who told her she was off her nut. So far as I can figure it, that makes her current whereabouts no longer your lookout.” He leaned forward to pin them both with his best predator’s glare. “I catch a single hint of any Council interference, from here on out, in that girl’s affairs, and I’ll drain every last one of you in the entire state of California.”

The Watcher who’d been on the porch the entire time must have been the senior of the two, for he straightened, fighting to keep the tremors out of a cultured voice lightly touched with hints of Pakistani vowels. “And just who the bloody hell are you, sir, to make such demands? I’d think, considering…”

“I’d think, considering I’m over a hundred years your senior,” Spike cut him off, “and I haven’t killed you yet, you ought to count yourself lucky I’ve already had a nice snack on your houseboy there…” They jerked as one and swiveled to stare into the house behind them, paling. “…And that I need a couple of you nits to act as my messengers,” he went on without pausing to give them time to absorb the information he’d just dropped. 

Instead, as a calling card, he slapped down a railroad spike he’d nicked from over there just the other side of the fence. It gleamed dully in the pale glow of the porch lighting. “Think you ought to know who I am from that. If you don’t, maybe you ought to go back to Watchers’ Primary.” And, standing, he made for his grand exit. “Don’t let me catch a whiff of any of you buggers anywhere near the girl, ever again, or you’re dead. Every last one of you. She’s fucking  _ mine _ now. I won her fair and square.”

Silence from the peanut gallery… that was, until he was fairly halfway across the green. Then, “Y… B… but if you’re William the Bloody, and y… Wh… Why take a Slayer from… I mean, you usually just kill them! Why…”

Spike didn’t even turn. “That’s for me to know and you to never find out, you useless sacks of shite.” And he was gone, round through the fence and onto the equestrian trails letting out, eventually, back to where he’d parked his car.

Fucking sods, every one of them. 

He’d not wanted to believe it, but they’d done it. They hadn’t known what to do with her once they’d had another. Hell; they didn’t even have a bloody idea what she was now, and if there was one thing those ponces didn’t like, it was an unknown quantity. 

/Well, it hardly matters to the bastards anymore. She’s well and truly dead to them. Might as well write her off, the way they’ve more or less already done. We’ll have our fight. She’ll win or I will. And she can’t win, because I’ve got to make it through in order to see to Dru. So within a few days, she’ll be well and truly dead, and they’ll have nothing to worry about anyroad./ 

They might as well back off. They had nothing to be concerned about, one way or another. He’d come in to solve their bloody problem for them, hadn’t he? 

Back at the warehouse, he stopped again at the chit’s door before heading in to check up on Dru. It was habit by now to pause there, to suss out how the Slayer was holding up, whether she was improving. He needed to know, after all, where she was at, by way of assessing the status of his future opponent.

Halt for a moment. Close his eyes, draw in a long lungful of her scent, to ascertain how much of the drugs were still in her system. (She smelt better and better each time he checked, for the record; more like a young girl ought, and less like some sort of sodding chemical factory. Also smelled as if she’d used his gifts by now. Well and good, and he hoped she’d enjoyed them.) Listen for a few minutes, see if she was up and moving, and if so, was she sluggish, sprightly; how was she getting on and that. Was she raving, or sounding more put together in there? Poor bird had sounded so fucking lost, at the beginning. Did she…

“I can feel you.” The voice took him by surprise, almost made him jerk back, she sounded so close. “Are… Are you.. real? Am I imagining this?”

/Oh, hell./ She’d come down enough from the fucking pills that she was starting to get a handle on what was up and what was down, was starting to note and trust her instincts once more. 

Well, fuck. No time like the present, he supposed. “Yeah, I’m real,” he answered, calling back through the door. “Contrary to what you’ve been told, a’ course. Everything in there and out here is real, luv.”

A long pause, fraught with hesitation… and then a rustling, as the chit moved nearer to the door. When she spoke again, she was muffled… and close enough to set him utterly on edge; speaking, he thought, through the crack between steel door and metal frame. 

The sharp, intent feel of her rather indicated she was mostly back to herself again. It was bracing, and he drew a deep, savoring breath of her scent once more as she spoke. “Why? Why did you… If you’re real, then you should want to kill me, not…”

/Oh hell/ Spike thought again, and wanted to curse. Of course she’d think it was a hole in the ‘reality’ of the tale. Something she’d made up to relieve the unremitting awfulness of her reality in that hole. “It’s a long bloody story,” he tried, because he damn well  _ did _ want her to get her head on right, and soon, if they were ever to have the opportunity to fight before Dru broke in there and drained the poor chit. “Let’s just say I don’t think any Slayer should go out like that, drugged six ways to Sunday and driven half out of her head because a bunch of hacks don’t know the truth of the world if it slapped them in the face.” He frowned, biting it off as his irritation at those bellends of Watchers, the fuckwits at the asylum and all the rest won out. /You’re the ultimate warrior, and creatures not fit to spit on your no doubt cute little shoes locked you up and abused you. I should go back and drain the lot of them./ “You fought a Master,” he grated flatly, “and won. You bloody well  _ deserve _ better.”

Another silence, this one stretching out so far he thought maybe he’d lost her attention, then, “A… are you… I mean…” She ground to a slow stop, picked up again, haltingly. “What’s your name?” 

Spike snorted, rolling his eyes. /Well enough. Might as well know the name of the vamp who intends to do her in once she’s in fighting fettle again./ “Name’s Spike, luv.” He fingered the much-perused and dog-eared sheaf of papers that listed everything he knew about her, still tucked in the inside pocket of his duster. Name, birthdate, home address, diagnosis... and the rest of that rubbish as no longer signified. “And you’ll be Buffy Summers; Slayer. And no one can take that from you.”

There was a gasp from the other side of the door, then the sound of retreating feet. Spike found himself wondering, then, if the chit’s now-deceased Watcher had told her about the slayer of Slayers, or if there was some other reason that she had scarpered at his words. 

Ah, well. He had other things to attend to this evening. 

The door had been opened, at the least.

***

He was a vampire.

Did that make him not-real?

He also said his name was ‘Spike’.

Probably that made him more not-real. After all, ‘Pike’, ‘Spike’… If she was going to imagine someone coming to rescue her, take her out of the hospital, give her nice things somewhere—better food, a nice room, a nice bath, and be all… weirdly gentle?—she would imagine Pike coming back to do it, right?

Granted, she didn’t think her brain would be insane enough to do a weird mashup and come up with some kind of vampire version of Pike, and call him ‘Spike’, but if she was obsessed enough with her paranoid fantasies to mix her nutty ‘vampire’ concept with the idea of ‘Pike to the rescue!’, maybe this was what would come out of it? /Did Pike get turned during the fight?/

/No, because he came to visit me, right? And he was human, still. Right?/

/Except, that wasn’t real, was it?/

/Oh, God./ She dropped her head back into her hands, whirling. Confusion reigned. She had, after all, never fully ascertained whether Pike was real or not-real. 

Why couldn’t he also be a vampire?

When he came back, the next time—when she felt him on the other side of the door—she sidled over, wondering whether it was bad that she was acknowledging the feel of him approaching… /But I have to know, either way, right?/ And spoke through the crack. “Are… Are you Pike? Just… changed?” 

Pike or no, the… person on the other side of the door was definitely not-normal. Not an orderly in disguise, or someone messing with her. Unless she was having another psychotic break and imagining all of this, which was possible, of course… but everything felt so much more solid, now. And, just… She definitely felt that… that  _ feeling _ , through the door. Like something on the other side was making her entire being  _ aware _ . Like every hair on her body was lifting and pointing toward this ‘Spike’, while a frisson ran through her; zinging up her spine, up the nape of her neck. She felt like bubbles were dancing on her skin; like she’d been immersed in a bubble bath that was popping all around her, and… /And that was what made me so antsy when I was next to Lothos! I  _ knew _ I felt weird, but I just thought I was nervous, or freaked, or…/

Was that a  _ vampire _ feeling? Merrick had kind of implied that she should be able to recognize vampires when they came near her, but he’d… Died before they could really… “Did they… Did they get you, at the gym?”

There was a short, pointed silence from behind the door, and then, “Pet, my name is Spike, not ‘pike’, whoever the hell that is. William the Bloody, if you want to know my other name…”

Buffy drew back, away from the door. Pike’s first name had  _ not _ been William, but James. James Pike, which meant that unless she was dreaming, or this was some kind of joke, this guy was  _ not _ Pike. /Also, Pike was definitely not English, and this guy sounded  _ way _ English, which…/ “Uh… Why did you…” None of this made any sense. Vampires were killers. They killed Pike’s friend Benny. They tried to kill half the school. Lothos tried to kill Merrick; to sire him, and that had been such a terrible fate that her Watcher had  _ shot himself in the head _ rather than allow it. Being a vampire was bad news. It was the literal worst! How could a vampire be the person who had taken her out of the hospital, and be standing on the other side of that door, not-killing her?

This had to be a dream, or a psychotic break, even if it didn’t make any sense for her to be imagining such a dumb premise. Otherwise it was just… “Will you, uh… let me out? Without killing me?”

Another silence, then a heavy sigh, “Don’t plan on killing you just yet, pet. Plan on getting you well. Want to fight you.”

Buffy froze. /Yet. He said ‘yet’. And he wants to  _ fight _ me? Wh…/ 

“Which means you need to get better. Here.” Something slid under the door, in a little packet. “I’ve cut your meds down another half-dose. You’re nearly done with ‘em. You’re already damn near off the one. Take this dose, like a good girl, and tomorrow you’ll be done with the Haldol, and only one dose left of the other…” 

Buffy stepped back, away from the door, staring down at the meds sitting there on the floor between her feet, wrapped in a little envelope. It all looked so very innocuous, but it could as easily be a serpent set to attack at any moment. /Oh my God, what?/

“…Then, after another half a day you’ll finally be off the shite they were giving you in there that made it so you couldn’t bloody tell which way was up, and you won’t think you’re sodding crazy anymore, because you’ll know at least when to trust your own bleeding instincts, your own senses…”

Buffy began shaking, eyes never leaving the tiny white paper square. She felt like she was watching a viper, settled there between her toes. /I haven’t been getting my meds. I’m losing my mind. I’m imagining all of this, hallucinating, none of this is real…/ “No,” she heard herself whisper, and out of nowhere she felt like she was sobbing for breath. “You can’t. I need those, or I’ll… Or I don’t know what’s real. That’s what tells me what’s real, or… Or you’re not, and this isn’t, none of it is, I’m crazy without the meds, I’m…”

Something seemed to snap on the other side of the door. “Fuck that! Dammit, Slayer, they’ve got you all bloody twisted up! I’m real, which means you’re not fucking insane!”

/No, that’s…/

“Do you know what happens when someone’s given antipsychotics when they’re not needed? You show symptoms of fucking psychosis!”

The vampire’s words hit her with the weight of a punch to the face, rocking her unsteady brain. All of a sudden, she could not breathe. He was offering her an alternative explanation for the last however many months of her life that just hadn’t seemed to compute, and it was such a glowing alternative to the one they had offered her that she was afraid to reach for it. Afraid that if it was in fact true… 

/What did they  _ do _ to me?/

“Yeah!” the voice answered her stunned silence; a low growl of frustration. “Those twats couldn’t imagine that what you were seeing was real, so they doped you to the sodding gills, sent you straight off your bird. But you’re not insane, do you  _ hear _ me? This is the first bleedin’ time in, what is it? Eight fucking months or some shit that you’ve had the chance to trust your own damned senses, without a soddin’ drug haze in the way!”

She couldn’t. /I can’t./ 

“You were tranked out of your bloody gourd so they could keep you in place—never seen a Slayer so fucking sedated—because they were  _ scared _ of you! Because if they didn’t, you’d just up and walk the fuck out, wouldn’t you?”

She remembered. The shaking, the trembling, some faint recall of Dr. Richards and Jonas and Craig, the nurse, talking about her being strangely resistant to the Thorazine, and coming out of it too fast, and…

/No, no, nononono…/

“They’d never seen anything like you and they couldn’t explain it… which should tell you right there that we’re real; you, me,  _ all _ of us!"

/Oh God…/ 

“You’re not a lie and neither am I; and you’ll stop taking their shite meds, because they weren’t telling you the truth! I am, and you’re  _ not _ imagining me!” The fraught voice dropped then, all frustration leeching away. “Christ.  _ Trust _ yourself, pet. You’re not imagining  _ you _ .”

She couldn’t  _ breathe _ . 

“You’re a hell of a Slayer. You took out sodding  _ Lothos _ .” 

It shook her to her core. That he knew her history, knew what she’d done. Didn’t that mean he had to have come from her head, be part of her delusion? And yet… 

God; his voice rang with such  _ approbation _ . With simple, plain admiration, and it was so  _ good _ to hear that someone  _ believed _ her. Not only that, but that they thought her hard work, all her sacrifice, was  _ worth _ something. “Took out his whole sodding nest, innit? Fresh out of the box, too, from what I hear. Barely knew your business. No help to be had, as well. Watcher gone, just you and fifteen, twenty vamps…”

Buffy’s voice was shaking. Her hands felt like they were going to fall off, they were vibrating so hard, as the memories struck in flashes. Fighting in the midst of a solid mass of attacking vampires, all frothing and demonic. Of her body taking over, instincts ruling her. Of holy water, and stakes… Of spraying Lothos with ignited Aqua Net, like a giant, grinning wasp. Of the fire, and Pike… “I… I had help,” she whispered. “Pike…” If she gave in, now, was she allowing the insanity to claim her? Stepping right back into her delusion, and no way out, ever again? Was she turning wholesale to the madness of her former coping mechanism, and letting it suck her in permanently?

Or was the voice right, and she had let them… Let the doctors…

It was a simple choice, but it was some kind of Sophie’s choice. And it was  _ such _ a gamble. Fifty-fifty, which one meant she was sane, or sentencing herself forever to a life of madness. “I can’t…” How could she choose? By measuring which was more difficult to accept? 

If she went with which was harder to live with, she had to choose Dr. Richards’ narrative. That one was like climbing straight up a featureless brick wall every day, with no handholds, clinging, slipping, falling every second, while gravity dragged her inexorably back down into the yawning pit of her delusion… which, lying below, felt warm, comfortable, real. 

And if she were to choose which one felt right… Well, that was the easy one. /Oh, God. They say the things that are harder are the right ones, because if you have to earn them…/ 

/But then, if they’re too hard, if they feel impossible, maybe that means they’re actually wrong?/ 

It was impossible, this decision. Terrifying. Her whole future, her whole life was wrapped in this. Every message she had gotten for… She had no idea how long she had been in the hospital. /Was it really eight  _ months?  _ I’ve been out of school, away from everyone, in that place, for eight  _ months? _ / 

And if that really were the case, and she had been trying with all her being to believe the doctors’ narrative for nearly a  _ year, _ losing everything else of her life in the process, and with every medication they could give her to help her, with every family member and friend—with the exception of Pike, who had been there, in the trenches with her—telling her to believe the doctors, and she still hadn’t been able to do it… 

She had tried, and  _ tried; _ but what if what they were trying to tell her was wrong? What if, maybe, just maybe, they had been trying to get her to believe a lie? /If they took almost a year away from me because they just couldn’t  _ believe _ me… I tried so  _ hard _ to believe  _ them _ . But if…/

Anger began to filter in. She would be a grade behind. She would have lost every friend she ever had. They would all think she was insane. She would have to change schools; maybe move. Not that Hemery would take her back, now that she’d burned down the gym, but… It was just… /I tried so  _ hard _ , and if the harder thing is the right thing…/

That was when it hit her. It was just as hard, believing in vampires, if it meant losing everyone and everything, including maybe even her parents, everyone’s estimation of her sanity, because it was her duty… and because it was  _ real _ .

Reaching down, she picked up, fingered the tiny packet. Tore it open. Inside were one half of a small pill and about a quarter of a larger one. “One more day, and I’m done with the meds?”

When the voice answered, his tones were limned with the sounds of relief. “Yeah. And then you can maybe start coming out. You know. To work out. If you promise to behave. Not stake us.” The faint edges of a chuckle touched his voice then. “Well, you can stake a couple of my minions, if you want; if it gets you back in the swing of things. I can spare ‘em. Can always make more. Want you back in shape, though.” Something entered the accented voice; something taut, almost… yearning. “Long as you don’t come after me or Dru, all’s well. And, so long as you promise not to scarper off, since you and I have business to attend to, once you’re back in top form…”

/Dru?/ She fingered the bits of pill, trying not to think about this person’s weird hints that he wanted to fight her for some reason. Like, why save her just to fight her? It didn’t make any sense. “Do you think it’d kill me at this point to just… stop the meds?”

A short, thoughtful pause, then… “You’ve stepped down to almost naught by now. Might not hurt you to cut it out. You’ve a Slayer’s constitution. You can stand a lot. But you’re just getting the ground solid beneath you. No sense sending it swaying again, and you in there sweating like you’d fought a rhinoceros just because you’re wanting for a dose.”

Buffy blinked at the tiny segments of medication in her hand. He was saying that the doctors had turned her into a junkie, there in the hospital, and he was trying to wean her off of the hard stuff. “Wow,” she whispered, closing her eyes, and sighed as she went over toward the little table that held her food and box juices and stuff. “Okay, I’ll… take it slow.” Making a face, she stabbed one of the boxes with the straw and swallowed the semi-pills down. “Is it you who’s been sneaking in to give me food and crap? And if so, can I make a request?”

She thought she heard hesitation from the other side of the wall, then, “Wouldn’t trust it to just anyone, Slayer. You’re not in top shape, though no doubt if necessary you could stake these buggers I have here. Most of ‘em are tossers. What? You got some special food request? That stuff not good enough for you?”

She felt her lips curve upward in spite of herself at his bitchy tone. He was impatient with her. Clearly he didn’t like that she was spunky enough now to make demands. “I was more thinking maybe a razor? I’d really love one of those.”

Nothing for a sec. Then, “Can I trust you not to off yourself in there, Slayer?”

/Wait, what? Is that why…/ It hit her, only then, that that was probably why she’d never gotten one in the hospital. They’d let her use an electric one here and there, but it had been dull, and pulled, and she’d given up. After a while, between the unwanted sensation and her shaking, weak hands, it had just been too much of a trial, but, just, wow. It had never occurred to her that… “Oh, jeez. Yeah, I promise not to cut my wrists. As if anyone could with one of those…”

“You’d be surprised. Alright, pet. I’ll see what I can do.” There came a mutter from the other side of the door. She thought she caught, ‘Bloody picky chit’, shook her head. 

It was like he was speaking another language. “Do English people always talk like they’re not actually speaking English? And, you know, why are you living here if you’re English, anyway?”

The door practically echoed with the strength of his snort. “That’s for me to know and you to find out, you maddening chit. And as to the language bit, the way you mangle the mother tongue, you’ve no place to speak from, yeah?” Heavy footsteps echoed, heading away from her room. Boots, she thought.

“Hey, Spike?” she called, loath suddenly to have her conversational partner gone. She was… lonely, maybe? Weird to apply the relief of that particular emotion to a vampire, but… He was actually okay to talk to. “Are you coming back soon?”

The boot treads halted briefly. “Got other things to attend to, Slayer, but yeah. I’ll be back soon.”

Why did a promise like that from a vampire (vampire?) make her feel so much better?

***

The stupid Master tried another whole ‘escape and take over Sunnydale’ trip a little bit after Cordy had recovered from her fratboy incident. Which would have been pretty stupidly awful, except Xander Harris was trailing her—yet again—right about then, which meant that his shadow, Willow Rosenberg, was trailing  _ him _ , and this time they both saw her in the field, right in the midst of dusting two of the nasty old vamp’s Sons of Aurelius or whatever. Which meant that she finally had to come out and admit to being what she was, after one of her many craptastic, off-the-cuff excuse fell through (there was only so many times you could try to write off stabbing giant wooden slivers into random guys in a cemetery and watching them go  _ poof _ before you ran out of things to say about it that were remotely believable)… and dammit, she was about done with Angel being not-there when she fought his (apparently) relatives. Why was he always conveniently elsewhere whenever she had to throw down with someone his grandfather or whatever sent after them?

Well. Save that dressing-down for another time. Meanwhile, she had to go get one of her own from her Watcher, who was bound to get all prissy about her having ‘informed’ civilians about her ‘secret identity’. /Like I’m Superwoman or something. Though… I kinda am./ 

True to form, Giles got all huffy when she entered the library all super late—because, let’s face it, the dude had no life—to inform him that her two loser classmates knew she was the Slayer. “Oh, dear God,” he muttered, and tugged off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Why not just take out an advertisement in the  _ Times _ …”

“Oh, jeez, Jeeves, take a chill-pill,” Cordy waved it off. “Look at it this way. Maybe we can get them to help out. Do some… supporto-level… grunt-work-something, now they know…”

“Hey, wait!” Xander protested, predictably suddenly less than enthused now there was work involved. “I’m all for helping you out… you know, protecting you from bad guys out in the… Out there…” 

Cordy snorted derisively. “Yeah. Because I need  _ your _ protection. Tsha. You were worse than a noodle when that one vamp grabbed you, and you screamed like a girl. I saved  _ you _ .”

“Okay, but I was  _ surprised! _ I’ll have you know that I can hold my… That if I was  _ prepared _ , I could… If I knew  _ how _ to fight ‘em, I’d be…”

“What kind of… help do you think you might need?” Willow broke in right then, sounding reserved but interested. 

Both Cordy and Xander turned to gape at her in shock. 

“What?” Willow demanded, defensive. “Cordelia hasn’t bothered to be a bitch to me for, like, months. It’s like she’s been this totally other person; so wrapped up in other things she’s barely noticed me—which is totally of the good, and I’ll take it—and obviously she’s had other things on her mind than currying favor with the in-crowd. She’s being shunned by Harmony and that bunch, which means something. And she’s saved you, Xander—twice—which is… Well, you gotta admit, big; and now she’s saved me, too. I mean, it turns out she’s some kind of, like, fighting-against-evil, crusader-in-the-night-superhero now, so we should totally get in on helping with something like that, right?” At Cordelia’s continued, amazed stare, Willow shrugged. “Look, I’m not saying let’s be besties or anything, but if someone’s doing something like that, that deserves assistance.” Her eyes were placid on Cordy’s shocked gaze. “About all I can contribute is, you know, hacking and stuff, but if that’d help…”

Cordelia felt something warm flood through her; an unexpected and stunned emotion she couldn’t identify. After everything she’d done, everything she’d given up in the last several months… someone had noticed, and thought she deserved help. Someone  _ cared _ . 

More than that. This was someone who, like Marcie whatever-her-name-was, she had belittled, made her life miserable previous to her having been Called. That was… “I… I could see that really being helpful, sometimes.” The words almost stuck in her throat, but that was the old Cordelia. Right now, this Cordelia, the one who could definitely use helpers, could be real and speak up about it if it meant being gracious enough to take what was being offered. Especially if it meant she might be able to get her GPA back up, reclaim some of her former glory, by accepting a little help with the research and stuff. “I’d really appreciate that, Willow.”

Xander was staring again. She didn’t want to acknowledge whatever the look might mean, so she whirled back to face Giles. “Right, so there were three. They all had that stupid necklace on; you know, the one that said they were flunkies of his majesty. I’m thinking a new Vigeous-type-thing might be brewing.”

Giles, looking distracted and not a little bemused, nodded and slipped his glasses back on. “I’ll consult the books.”

Willow blinked and started to look excited. “There are  _ books _ on this stuff?”

“Oh, God,” Xander muttered.

***

Buffy couldn’t help continually rubbing her hand over her shins. Her smooth, shaven shins. It was ‘a totally organic experience’, as the commercial said, and she really couldn’t get over it. 

She was never, not once, going to take something like shaving for granted again. 

She actually felt  _ clean _ .

The feeling of her skin brushing, naked and unprotected, against the breezy linen slacks Spike had left in the room for her, was so damned sensual she shivered from it. It was like all her sensations were dialed up to eighty, without the fog of the pills in her head. 

Everything was like that, though. Everything felt insanely  _ immediate _ , and real, and  _ there _ , and so unbelievably intense…

Spike said he was going to let her out today. Unlock the door and show her around ‘the place’, whatever ‘the place’ was. “First I’ve got to set some things up, pet,” he’d informed her. “See to it you’re safe. You’ve earned the right to go about without fighting for your life, till you get your bearings. Have a few things to show you, a few things to discuss with you once you’ve had your tour… and then maybe, if you’re a good girl and don’t hare off away from me down the street, maybe we can come to an understanding.”

Why on earth would she run away or whatever, from the guy who, vampire or no, had plucked her out of the nightmare of the hospital and, bizarrely and for reasons Buffy could not and would probably never comprehend, was treating her better than her own parents had after the fire? His reasoning was really totally beyond her, but, you know, whatever. She’d swear to a lot more than ‘yeah, I’ll stay and listen, I promise’, if it got her out of a room that, though it was miles nicer than the one she had inhabited for literally  _ forever _ (a semester, a summer, and the better part of another semester, she was being led to believe, oh my god!), was still, when you got down to it, a locked room. Even if it was supposedly locked for her own safety and yadda.

“Remember, luv,” the now-familiar English tones reminded her as the padlock popped apart and the door creaked. It began to swing open by degrees, “I  _ am _ a vamp…” 

Apprehension touched the edges of her being. Now that the moment of truth was on her, she kind of had performance anxiety. What if the door opened and nothing was there? What if he wasn’t real, and this was all in her head? What if the gap widened to reveal the familiar hospital corridor, and Jonas or Dr. Richards waiting there with a syringe…

_ God _ .

Or… what if it  _ was _ the vampire she vaguely recalled from that… that  _ night _ , but he faded into Pike and back again, or tried to bite her, or…

/What if he doesn’t like me or whatever? What if he decides I’m not whatever he wants me to be? The reason he saved me, whatever  _ that _ is…/

What if he closed the door again and just… left her there, forever?

“No need to run from me, though, or hit me, or stake me,” Spike drawled on, chill as if they were just chatting. “We’ve a truce, yeah?”

Fighting to maintain an emotional equilibrium she didn’t at all feel, Buffy rolled her eyes at the slowly-parting seam, the dim crease of light it showed. “I think we’ve covered that.  _ Why _ we have a truce is a pretty gigantic topic of what-the-hell, but you know. What I don’t know won’t hurt me, or whatever, till we have our great big ‘Talk’?”

Spike’s tones took on a faintly pained edge. “Something like that, pet.” 

The door groaned again, swung wide. And there he was. The guy she vaguely recalled, or thought she had imagined, or hallucinated, from her room at the hospital. And yeah, wow. So, okay, he was actually pretty much exactly as she remembered, which was… 

/What does that  _ mean? _ / Did it mean anything, that he remained the same, whether she was on the drugs or off of them? Was he more real than anything else she had encountered since the night she had burned down her school gym?  _ This _ guy; this kinda short, punkish dude with the bleached hair and the pale face and the scarred eyebrow and the too-dark-clothes-for-his-complexion, and the massive black-on-red fixation, and the way trying-too-hard-to-look-bad Doc Martens problem, and the long coat… (Okay, she could honestly really fall in love with that coat, though. Who even  _ saw _ leather dusters, anymore? He even managed to make it look good; not cowboy or anything, but, like, tough and yet somehow suave, and…)

Moving on. Anyway, he was a little bit of a stuck-in-the-past fashion-victim, so yeah. He could use some work there. A lot of vamps she’d seen in her short Slayer tenure had had that issue, sticking with some really bad bygone fashions out of weird loyalty, or hangups over the era of their siring or whatever the hell. This guy was apparently from the seventies or something. Maybe she could give him a makeover as a thank-you for the save, because he really, really didn’t have a clue how to dress for his coloring, much less any idea of how to live in the Now. But in the meantime… 

In the meantime, the fact that he was the same guy in the hospital and in the current moment meant that he was seriously… real. Like, really, actually, a real-live, real-thing person. Like… in the same category as parents and the doctors and… And… “Wow,” she whispered, and reached out involuntarily to touch one—as a side-note, really intense—cheekbone. “You really  _ are _ real, aren’t you.”

He flinched back, apparently automatically, at her touch, looking startled that she’d act like this around him or whatever, but she barely noticed. She was too caught up in the shock of it all. Because if  _ he _ was real, and he was a vampire, then ergo, that made  _ all _ vampires real. Which in turn made everything that had happened to her since she had met Merrick real. 

By extension, that made everything that had happened to her since taking down Lothos real. Which meant…

“I’m not crazy.” The whisper escaped her lips almost without her cognizance, flavored with awe.

/Oh, God./

She had been put in the hospital for eight months, because they’d thought she was crazy. 

She had been drugged, strapped down, locked in padded rooms, left screaming for help, for understanding, because they’d thought she was crazy. 

Her parents had left her there, had walked out on her again and again, ignoring her cries for them to stay, to get her out of there… because they’d thought she was crazy.

/They  _ told _ me I was crazy./

But she wasn’t crazy. 

/I’m  _ not _ crazy./

“Oh my God,” she whispered, as it hit her, all at once. Everything. The  _ weight _ of all of it; and she sagged, clinging to the leather coat before her, at a loss for anything else to hold on to as the world spun away beneath her feet. 

The vampire quit being all flinchy and caught her as her knees gave out. “Steady on, Slayer,” he whispered. Still supporting her by one forearm, cool hand cupping her elbow with a strange gentleness for a creature who should want to kill her, he loosed the other, tucked it under her chin—so cool. Undead, and yet so animated—tugged her face up till her eyes could meet his. And… wow. Wow, wow, wow, he had some seriously blue eyes. Even now, with the impact of everything hitting her like a thousand sledgehammers, she found herself mesmerized by the reassuring twinkle there, the concern. “You’re right. You’re not barmy. You’re sane as anyone can be in this mad world. They did a real bloody number on you, sure; but you’ll get your feet back under you quick enough, yeah? You’re one tough chit; that’s clear. So c’mon. Come pound it all out on a bag or summat...”

/A bag?/

“All the anger they’ve put in you. All the confusion; all of it...”

Hearing him say it made her realize it was there; a slow but growing emotion comprised of betrayal, and a rising rage. /They stole my life from me. They locked me away, drugged me, turned me into a drooling vegetable. Took away my last friend, my identity, my power…/

/They stole my  _ life _ from me./

Wrath locked her knees. Anger surged through her, shooting up her spine to straighten her body.

“Yeah, that’s it,” the odd vampire near-crooned at her. “Stand on your own two feet.” He released her arm as she nodded, regained her footing. “You’ve earned it, that rage. Make it work for you, yeah?”

The low-voiced, rumbly approval put more steel in her spine. “Yeah,” she heard herself agree, and nodded again. “Yeah.” It came out more firmly the second time.

“Right, then,” Spike said, and catching her elbow, this time as a sort of light guide, he turned her. “This way. I’ll show you about the place.”

‘The place’ appeared to be some kind of, like, warehouse or something, judging from the whole ‘beams and struts’ motif. “So, like,” Buffy murmured, trying for conversational, “do you  _ choose _ to live in a place like this, or is it a hiding-out type thing, or…”

Spike shot her an odd, sideways look. “Well, it isn’t as if demons can get home-loans, or swanky uptown jobs and afford to build up equity, yeah?”

She frowned at that, stung by his sharp tones. “Demons?” she asked, as the odd word-usage caught her broadside. “I mean, can’t you just… wear the human face, keep the house you had before, pretend, if you want to…”

“Plenty of demons don’t have a human face, pet.”

She blinked, confused. “What are you talking about?”

He halted mid-step to eye her as if she were some sort of strange museum-piece. “Talkin’ about other demons, luv. Besides vampires, yeah?”

She shook her head, now seriously thrown off her game. “There are more? Other kinds, I mean?”

“Oh, bloody fuck,” he whispered, looking suddenly exhausted. “The poor chit’s so undereducated she doesn’t even know enough about the business to know there’s more’n one sodding kind of fucking demon…” Catching her arm once more, he pivoted and started off once more down the long, spare, chilly hall, shaking his head like he was trying to throw it off or something. “There’re thousands of demon species, Slayer. Vamps are low-man on the totem-pole because we’re halfers—half human, half demon—and so many are hung up on demonic purity.” His face twisted a little in what looked like derision, and his voice went caustic. “Not as if all the rest of that lot are all purebreds; none are unless they’ve come here fresh from another bleedin’ dimension. Most of the ones who call this one home are hybrids as well; it’s just we’re more of a one than they are, which makes ‘em look down on us…”

“Wait,” Buffy insisted, throwing up a hand and coming to a halt once more. “There are other  _ dimensions? _ ”

Spike exhaled hard and heavy, halting them at another doorway. “Hell. This is gonna be some bloody thing, innit.” He turned to her, tilted his head in an odd way, his eyes no longer hard or frustrated, but soft and strangely luminous. “Christ; that Watcher of yours sent you direct into battle with not a single idea what the fuck you were getting yourself in for, didn’t he? Rutting tosser. Fuck; did you even have any physical training?”

Buffy frowned, starting to get a little upset at this vampire’s denunciation of Merrick’s methods. “We didn’t have much time to train. Lothos found out about me, and came after us, and…” Bristling, she shot back, “He had a room. In a place kind of like this! With dummies, and…”

Frowning, Spike nodded, and, leaning back, flung his left arm wide to crank open the door beside him. “Anything like this?”

Blinking, arrested mid-harangue, Buffy leaned around him to peer past the doorframe. And saw what looked like some kind of vast workout space; like something from a martial arts movie. Like  _ Karate Kid _ , or something, only… 

There were two huge punching-bag things hanging from the massively-high ceiling, both of them as long as she was tall, with centers made of what looked like very stiff leather, with circles drawn all over them like little targets. There was another tiny little punching-bag (or, at least, she thought it was one, but it was only the size of, like, a person’s head) hanging off of a circular board to one side, though what good that did anyone was beyond her. There was a dummy with similar circles on him, on the heart area, on the throat, on the head. There was some sort of corkboard thing on one wall, and next to it, a rack of what looked like knives. There was another rack, freestanding in the center of the room, holding a bunch of tall sticks, and things that looked like swords, but made of something that kind of looked like bamboo. There was some weird-looking fencepost-type-thing with wooden pegs sticking out all over the place on it, like a tree had bred with a porcupine. There were mats all over the floor. 

It was honestly a lot to take in.

“Like it, pet?” he asked, head tilted again and eyes intent on her. Like he was waiting for her reaction. 

She was amazed, and confused, and thrown, and… And what did you even  _ do _ with some of that stuff? “What, uh, is the, um, post-thing, with all the pokey-outey things on it?”

The vampire was frowning when she turned to eye him askance. “It’s used in kung-fu practice, to build up accuracy and speed in your strikes,” he informed her, a quiet question building in his eyes and stance.

“Oh.” Nodding, Buffy turned away to scan the room once more. “What about that one tiny little bag, there, hanging from that circle-shaped board? It looks way too small to be a punching bag…”

When he answered, he sounded incredulous. “The speedbag?” he exploded, his words shooting out of him at a way higher pitch than normal.

“Speedbag?” she inquired, confused. “That sounds like some kind of weird drug. What do you  _ do _ with it?”

“You’re  _ kidding _ me.” At her continued silence, “You’re not. Oh, bloody hell. What was even  _ in _ the dojo you had with your Watcher, before?”

“Dojo?” she asked, turning over the unfamiliar word, letting the flavor of it sit on her tongue.

“Yeah,” he exclaimed, sounding stunned. “You said he had a workout space set up for you! What the bloody hell was  _ in _ it? Papier mache?”

Buffy was starting to feel a little defensive on the late Merrick’s behalf. “I  _ told _ you. Dummies, for me to stake. All over the place. And a lot of stakes to use, in case the first one broke. And some books, though he never really got around to telling me what was in ‘em. He mostly just talked a lot. And then we met up with Lothos…” A tremble worked its way into her voice, and she trailed off.

“Oh, hell,” Spike muttered, and all of the outrage in his own voice sort of petered out. “Right. Alright then. Look, Slayer. There’s the hell of a lot more to this than just staking vamps, innit?”

She blinked at him. “There is?”

“Yeah,” he answered firmly. “Look. You need to learn discipline. Form. How to hone your moves. A lot of it’ll be instinctive, as you’ll have access to the memories of thousands of years worth of past Slayers perking slowly into the back of your mind when you work; especially if you can meditate enough to make your own thoughts go quiet. If you can find that space inside yourself that’s all gut. But you’ll also have to train; learn some of it with this body, in this time, and that takes work. Learnin’ the moves in the now; in  _ this _ life…”

“What?” Buffy broke in, feeling a little overwhelmed. “Like taking martial arts classes? Because I gotta tell you, I’m not big on karate or whatever. I’m more of a cheerleader kinda gal. And, you know, figure skating. That kind of thing. I mean,” she finished, with a faint scoff, “I did ballet. I was never big into kicky… punchy…” /At least, not till Merrick…/ 

Remembering her Watcher shoving a gun into his mouth as she jumped on a motorcycle and ran away, she shut down, tears starting in her eyes in spite of herself. /No. I can’t./

The vampire tilted his head just a little to eye her down along his nose. “Yeah, and I’ll wager you’re damn good at it. Bet you always were; from the start. Anything athletic you ever took on, without any help. Bet your reflexes were always bloody great, and you never needed much help before you were able to do each new thing right; spot-on, the first try.” 

Buffy blinked at the vampire, startled out of her internal agony by his astute little summary. “I… Yeah, actually. I was always picked first for every team, always… How…”

“You were a Potential Slayer, pet. Comes with the territory. You’ve probably always healed fast too. No doubt you hardly ever get sick, either.” Giving her a little nod, he pressed the door wider, standing aside in a clear gesture for her to enter the workout room he’d set up for her. “C’mon, then. Just give it a whirl, see if you like any of it. Won’t kill you, will it, to get some exercise. Bet you’ve been right pent up in that bloody hospital of yours. Bet you’re dying to let off some steam.”

God, he was right about that, if nothing else. Now that the drugs were wearing off, she was feeling way edgy; itching for some kind of exercise. She supposed this would do, even if… 

/Stop thinking./

Moving slowly, eyes darting everywhere around her, she stole into the wide room. “Where did you get all this stuff, anyway? Was it all just… already here, or…”

Spike grinned at her as he sidled in behind her and pushed the door shut. “Raided a few sporting goods places. What they don’t know won’t hurt ‘em.”

Buffy shrank back, withdrawing the hand she had only just held out to brush the nearest of the two long, heavy punching bags. “You  _ stole _ it all?”

He rolled his eyes strenuously at her. “Hullo.  _ Vampire _ .”

/Oh. Right./ She supposed he wasn’t going to go around paying for stuff or whatever. “Oh. Yeah.” Well, stealing was better than going around killing everyone in sight. Which… he wouldn’t be doing that and helping her, would he?

The thought curled uncomfortably inside her breast, making her jitter. She could ask, but she found she honestly didn’t want to know. “So, uh… How do I…”

“Just close your eyes. Imagine there’re enemies all round you, comin’ in for the attack. And do what comes natural.” She heard the scrape of a footstep, echoing close by. Though she knew on one level that the sound was him moving away, out of the line of fire, still it helped with the imagining.

She drew in a deep breath, through her nose. Remembered how it had felt, to be surrounded. Dozens of vampires—Lothos’ vampires—all around her. Everywhere, no escape. Spinning, dodging, punching, kicking…

She was moving before she even realized that was what she was doing; striking out at the bags before and behind her: straight punch, low; elbow strike behind, throat; roundhouse, high; lean back and kick…

It felt so good. So good to move again. It all bled into some kind of smooth dance; no thinking, just one strike flowing into another as she ducked, kicked, punched, dodged a bag swinging toward her to weave into the next one, and back again, and around, her feet in constant motion, her body never in the same spot twice. 

And then, out of nowhere, the bag behind her was being shoved right into her face, and she dodged it, and she was face-to-face with a pale countenance above dark leather, and she struck out without thought, and was blocked... And something  _ surged _ through her that felt like roaring triumph, and she lowered her head and charged forward into the personal bubble of the thing that made every hair on her body stand up, and drove with punches and kicks, and fought back when he spun and kicked and dodged; and that was some sort of spinning kick she needed to try, so she did, and caught him behind his back so that he went down, but he only popped back up again in seconds to meet her once more... and she was  _ soaring!  _ Soaring on the adrenaline of it, and there were blue eyes tinged with gold, locked on hers, and a laughing red mouth, and a low, rumbling voice filled with some kind of sultry promise exhorting her, saying, _ “Yes,  _ Slayer, yes, that’s it, that’s it,  _ feel  _ it, embrace it, let them all know who you  _ are…” _

And before she knew it she was panting, exhausted, hanging onto one of the bags for dear life, gasping for breath and clinging, shaking and soaked with sweat, could barely contain the pounding of her heart in her chest as it tried to bound out of her, through her ribs, she thought for a second she was going to  _ die _ …

She slipped to the floor, leaning back on her hands, she couldn’t breathe, god, she needed to  _ breathe _ …

“Oh, Christ. I’m that sorry, pet. You haven’t yet recovered from the meds. Fuck, I’m sorry. I was greedy. You weren’t ready. Shit. Here. Let me go get you some water… Just keep breathing. Hell.” Swinging around, with a swirl of dark leather, Spike vanished, and was back in short order with a glass of something, which he handed to her. She took it with a trembling grasp, managed to get down a shaking sip of cold water, nearly choked, lowered it, went on gasping. God, would her heart ever settle down? It felt like it was going to batter its way out through her ribcage!

It took about five, ten minutes of endless, concerted breathing before Buffy was able to chill her system out, but she did, was finally able to get her body back on-line, blink her vision back to normal… And there he was, squatting before her looking far more concerned than any vampire ought ever to look as he eyed her progress. “Really sorry, Slayer,” he informed her quietly. “Here. Look. Next time, you take it at your own pace. Sorry about it. I just got excited, watching you work, jumped in too soon. Won’t happen again. At least, not yet…”

She shook her head, lifted a hand to scrub the sweat out of her eyebrows, out of her eyes. “I’m not… What… I feel like something took over me.” /What even?/

“Yeah, well… That’s what happens, innit? When the instincts kick in. No doubt that’s how you survived fighting Lothos’ nest.” One pale hand lifted, reached out, caught one sweaty lock of her hair between two fingers, brushed it up out of her eyes and behind her ear so it was no longer obscuring her vision. “Christ, you’re something, pet; you know that? You explode when you fight. You take fucking names. It’s a privilege to watch.” A faint twitch of a smile lifted the corners of his lips. “Hell; if this is what you’re like with shite for training, and after eight months enforced inactivity, what the fuck are you gonna look like after a few weeks to work on it and get into shape? Bloody hell, luv, I can’t wait to see it.”

Wow. He sounded way too admiring for a guy who’d, at best, watched her lose her mind and then get all breathless and fall apart. What the heck. “Okay?”

Shaking his head as if shaking something off, he got a weird, self-mocking smile on his face, pushed his elbows into his thighs, and stood. “We’ll see, I suppose. At any rate, you go on and try the quieter stuff, innit? No reason you have to go back to your room for a bit. I’ll stand watch on the door so you can have a bit of recreation.” He nodded at the far side of the room. “Might wanna give the speedbag a go, yeah? Think you’d like it.”

She frowned at him, still leaning back on one arm. “I don’t even know what you do with one of those,” she pointed out, logically enough.

“I’ll show you,” he told her, and headed that way to give her a practical demonstration.

***

Before he got the chit settled back into her rooms, he saw to it she knew how to use the speedbag, the wooden dummy, knew how to do a back-spin-kick and a few other moves she hadn’t used before, that sort of thing… And spent most of the rest of the time fighting to keep it from being known that he had the most enormous stiffy on the face of the bloody Earth while he was about it.

Holy fucking Christ, she was a natural. 

She had no form to speak of, of course. It was clear she’d had next to no training, had not a clue one about the business. But, fuck. Set her loose in a training yard, and…

Christfuck, she made a man’s jeans tight, to watch her. Once she was in the zone, and she let her instincts take over, she was a filthy bloody menace. He could only imagine how she had looked, down and dirty against a whole nest of brainless minions. /Sodding fuck./ 

She’d damn near taken down one of the heavy bags; and that after months of no exercise at all beyond probably a few brisk walks around some shitty yard or other. And the way she’d turned on him last of all, instinctively, teeth clenched, exhausted, but that look in her eye that said she’d smelt blood and wanted a kill…

She’d been the most complete Slayer, then. She was all of it, and…

He’d gotten to spar with her, for a mo’. 

Gotten to, hell. He hadn’t been able to stop himself. He was a genuine fucking moth to a bloody flame, was what it was. What a sodding ponce. She’d barely been able to keep up to speed on her own yet, and there he’d gone, prancing right into the thick of things when the poor chit was still trying to get her rhythm back together after three quarters of a year of drugged incarceration, and only a day off the sauce. What a fucking bellend.

Granted, she’d been an athlete before then, by her own admission, so one hoped it wouldn’t take her too long to get back into the swing of things, but still. /Way to be a selfish prat, you ponce!/ 

Fuck, she’d been amazing to fight, even with all that. What would she be like later, after a week or so to get herself back together, get back into shape, maybe learn a few things? /And after that, can we maybe manage regular sparring sessions, just like that one?/

Holy bleeding fuck, he needed a wank.

As she’d left off and indicated she was ready to return to her room for a wash and a rest, she’d passed the rack of training weapons, trailing her fingers over the lot of them. “Aren’t you worried about the stick-stuff?” she asked him, frowning. “Since it sounds like you kinda wanna spar, sometimes?”

He grunted, waving it off with what he hoped was casual disregard. “Well, we won’t spar for a while, yet. Again, I mean.” /Since I mean to control myself from here on out, dammit./ “And anyroad, the staves and swords are made of bamboo.” Off her blink of confusion, he elaborated patiently, “Bamboo is technically grass, not wood, so it won’t do me in. Though, to be fair, it’ll hurt quite a bloody lot,” he admitted with a slight sneer at the thought of a bamboo sliver running him through. /’How’d you get near-fatally injured, there, Spike?’ ‘Oh. I was stabbed with a hank of grass, by a bitty chit I could sling halfway to the moon if I wanted to, innit?’/

Buffy stared at him, apparently amazed. “How do you know? Have you been stabbed by a bamboo thing before? Because technically it’s, you know, plant-matter. It seems like a pretty big risk to take based on whatsitcalled. Sem…” She frowned, seeking for the right word.

“Semantics?” he supplied.

“Yeah, that.”

They rounded the corner to halt before her bedroom door. Delighted by her apparent concern for his wellbeing, Spike grinned down at her two-toned crown. “I’ve been poked by a lot of things over the years, pet, and done my share of poking.” He really ought to go and get her some sort of hair-lightener, so she could feel at the top of her game. He knew how it felt to need to bleach the roots and that. 

He squinted at the ends of her tresses as she passed him to enter, assessing the color she might have used before, put the consideration into his mental list of creature-comforts to supply her. /Need to ask her shoe-size as well. She’ll do fine barefoot for the time being, of course, with the mats and that, but eventually.../ 

Well, maybe wait a bit on that, till he was sure she wouldn’t rabbit on him. No shoes meant she might be less likely to scamper out the front door, wasn’t it?

“Well,” she murmured as she turned back to bid him farewell, “I guess I’ll… see you next time?”

Fingering the key-ring on his belt, Spike frowned. “Look, Slayer. I don’t really enjoy keeping you locked up in here.” /Make up your bloody mind, you dolt./ He shifted his feet in discomfort, fighting himself. He wanted to trust her to hang about, and yet... “I don’t like feeling as if I’m in any way similar to those bastards who had you bunged away in the asylum, before, innit? Frankly, I’d rather put the lock on the inside and give you keys to your own room, so you could come and go as you please, now it’s clear you can protect yourself and that. But here’s the thing. I don’t mind if you ended up dusting some of my minions, if they came at you and tried to have a nip, innit? Have them to spare, can always get more. But there’s more to it than you know about, in here. My sire…” 

/Christ, how to explain Dru?/ He honestly didn’t know half the time if his sire wanted the girl around or resented her presence, but it seemed to change from moment to moment, depending on which way the wind blew, or which pixies were talking to his Princess at which time. “She was the one who told me you existed and where to come to get you out… but she’s also a bit testy about your being here. I don’t want you two to get in a fight, because the last thing I want is for you to have to stake her…” /Fuck, no!/ “…Or for her to drain you…” /Not till I get my fight, dammit!/ The short match they’d just enjoyed had scarcely whetted his appetite. He needed more! Christ, how he needed more! “So if you’re willing to wait just a bit longer for me to sort all of it out…” He knew he was pleading for her understanding, which sounded like he was coming from a place of weakness, and that just wasn’t done, but he rather felt like this girl and he understood each other on some odd, instinctive level that he couldn’t quite explain, which was… 

Well, it was strange, was what it was, but he would use it if it helped him to get what he needed from her. 

The chit eyed him for a moment with an odd expression on her face before she nodded once, briefly. “It sounds like you have a lot going on. And, okay, I’m really not ready to fight for my life against some vamp I don’t know, and cause you trouble; not when I’m still trying to figure out which way’s up most days, so…” Vivid green eyes bored into his, riveting him briefly into place. “I trust you.”

Christ.  _ Should _ she, when he wanted to fight her? When, in the end, he meant her blood for Dru? “Right, then.” Nodding, he pulled the door to, not trusting himself to speak.

What the fuck was he  _ doing? _

* * *  
  
  
  
  
  
 **Author's note:** I honestly can't recall if we saw Xin Rong use any stakes or just the sword, but I've completely ignored it if she did use a bamboo one, if so, and headcanoned the above because I like it and it's a fun tweak and makes sense in my head. If XR did use a bamboo stake, I'm going to continue to ignore that fact because I like my idea better.  
  
LOL, I kinda feel bad for putting a death-by-vamp in my grandfather's old neighborhood, but I just really wanted to put those trails and tracks in a story. I freaking LOVE it up there, Manson Family hangout or no. And the historicity of the locale would appeal to Spike, lol, despite the forgetfulness of current (posh) residents.  
  
(PS, did it ever tweak anyone's ears but me that Buffy formerly dated/hung with a guy named Pike, then ended up with a guy named Spike? Just me? Ok.)  
  



	7. Haruspicy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I had to break up this chapter , finally, because it got unconscionably long even by my standards, what with all of Spike’s freaking out. (I'd had, if anyone's noticed, sort of a method going, of using the overall story segments, such as "Normal Never" and "Prophecy Girls", as thematic guides for chapter names.) As such, I have been forced to riff off of either “Prophecy” or “Girl” in some way within this segment of fic. Interestingly enough, they've ended in coming out sort of in pairs (luckily this one didn't screw up that system completely, since I ended up having bookend this one before I finished the segment, the way the word-count went). 
> 
> Since Spike's freakout took up too much space and I had to add in a chapter name, I landed on this word: the Roman version of augury, where you read the future by how entrails slopped out to steam on the ground or what-have-you. It seemed apropos, considering that our boy is feeling quite literally gutted right now, poor creature. I’d never known the official name of this practice it before now, but I’m delighted that it also sounds a lot like 'Heresy', since to his mind that’s where he’s living at the moment.  
> (It also works in a strange way for the Cangel segment, tho that will be more evident in the next chapter.)
> 
> HUGE kudos to wolf_shadoe, for betaing this one hot off the presses, having gotten it only a couple days in advance of y'all, because between this, a Secret Santa fic, and the regularly scheduled WIPs, I'm scrambling like a dork to keep up.

** Section 7B: Haruspicy  
  
**

He needed to kill her. Get it done quickly. This was all wrong. 

He swung round, wank forgotten, cock withering out of utter existential fear as he marched into the quarters he shared with Dru. “Right,” he announced as he strode in. “You’re right, pet. You’ve been right all along. I need to end this. I need to…” He shoved his hand through his hair, anxious and unsettled, until it was set awry. “How do you wanna do this, love?” he demanded, aware he just simply could not face his sire just then. His eyes darted everywhere but her as he addressed the wall behind her shoulder, the bedstead. Every part of the room but the woman he’d wronged; in his heart, if not with his stupid fucking cock. “You want me to just open the door up and set you loose in there, or…” He trailed off, at a loss and terrified to face her.

By way her legs were sprawled before him, Dru was sitting back and looking mazily at him from the center of the bed. To his surprise, she didn’t leap up and clap her hands together, pleased as punch at the suggestion he was relenting off his previous hard line. He’d half expected her to jump to and catch his hands for a nice bit of ‘ring around the bloody rosie’ upon hearing him tell her he was going to let her have a go at their captive Slayer. 

Instead, she just lay there, watching him with, as he dared to meet them, eyes that seemed far away, and looking into some deep, fathomless distance. “You won’t let me kill her, my knight,” she murmured sadly. “Not anymore. You may think you can do it, but the moment you have to hold her still for me to sup from that pretty neck, you’ll break.”

Spike felt his own faithless, damned eyes fall shut of their own accord. His neck tightened till he strained with it, because, damn,  _ damn _ her; she was bloody well right. He couldn’t just set his sire loose in that room with a Slayer who was starting to come back into her own! What the bloody hell was he thinking? Dru was weak, she couldn’t take the chit without help; not anymore. Not with how off his sire had been since that soddin’ mob had… 

She would need him to still the chit for her while she struck. Hold her, and feel the life drain from that strong, young body while she drank. Hear her heart slow, feel her struggles as she weakened, and finally feel the breath hiss out of her lungs as she struggled in vain for oxygen, while her valiant heart fought and lost the battle; an ignominious end for a young woman who had gone through all she had. Who had earned…

/Oh, fuck./ 

The words caught in his throat. “Christ, Dru, what do I do? I didn’t want this! I didn’t know…”

“I know,” she answered, flat and even, and reached out to pat the bed beside her, as if they were talking of tea and crumpets on a nice, green lawn. “Come here and sit by mummy, and let’s talk of things the way we used to.” 

/Fuck, fuck, oh God…/ He hadn’t  _ meant _ to… It wasn’t supposed to be… /I’m  _ Spike! _ William the fucking bloody fool for love! I might screw about, if it’s expected of me, but I’m sodding  _ faithful! _ That’s who I  _ am! _ I love  _ Dru _ , and no other! I’m  _ her _ knight, and have been, since…/

He hadn’t even thought himself  _ capable _ . 

The moment he lit with his knees on the bed, he turned to her, buried his head in her breast; shaking, uncertain, coming apart at the seams, and with his very identity under assault. She could destroy him, if she wished. He no longer cared.

She did not, though, simply lifted a hand to cup the back of his neck. Slid her long, cool fingers into the short hairs there, stroking him down. “I know. I know, my William, my Spike… but it was time. It’s been time long since, and she is the One. The one I made you for.” A long, slow sigh escaped the woman he had held strong and kept safe for over a century, loved with all his ridiculous heart. “I’ve fought it,” she told him quietly, “and I have been very, very angry. I  _ am _ very, very angry, and I’ll be quite sad to lose you, but she  _ is _ the One…”

He pulled back from her bodice, from the comforting scents of roses and blood—from  _ home _ —to stare in shock. “The one you… You  _ Saw _ …” Horror didn’t begin to cover it.

A long, manicured nail drew down along his face, where he hadn’t felt the tear fall, drew it up, cupping it. Put it to her lips. Tasting his agony. “Had you for so very long. Thought I’d get to keep you. But I felt her birth, my knight, and I knew… the time had come. It was ticking away, ever faster, for us…” A pained, regretful smile touched lips he had loved for all of his second life, wetted eyes he’d delighted to please. “Oh, I’ll be sorry to see you go. She burns you up so, my Spike, and I don’t know  _ why _ I must do this…”

Out of nowhere, her nails tightened on his neck, punching into his throat hard enough to threaten to chip the French tips he had done for her just yesterday. “I don’t want to let you go to her, if it means you will burn up. I don’t  _ like _ this.” And her eyes had sharpened to sparkling, bottle-green, clear and hateful, her vicious talons digging into his flesh like a harpy’s. 

“Then we don’t…” he choked out, at a loss and whirling with it. “Dru, I don’t want to…”

She gave him an abrupt shove, so hard he sprawled back, tumbled from the bed in disarray. “Too late. You’re all hers. Only bits of you left to me. Go on. Go to her. If I get well now, it’ll be my lookout.” Her voice was sharp again, cutting. Gone were the gentle, loving tones of the Dru who Saw clearly. She was angry, once more, at what had been lost between them, and resentful of what the pixies were causing her to do.

He was as well. He didn’t understand. Moreover, he quite frankly didn’t want to. “Dru, I…”

“Go. Go away. Mummy’s angry with you, Spike.”

He closed his eyes, pushed himself to his feet, fists clenching and unclenching against his sides. “I don’t know how to fix this,” he told her, hearing his own broken tones thick against the unyielding air between them.

“Can’t. It’s done. It’s why I brought us here. Has to happen.”

/Yeah. You did. What the bloody hell…/ “If you knew, then why the fuck…”

“What’s supposed to be. Doesn’t mean I’m happy about it.” She turned her face away, so he couldn’t read her eyes; stared into space. At the wall. “Go see her. Leave me be.”

/Oh, Christ…/ He had to see to this. He had to… “Dru, what if I… draw you a bath, and then maybe we can talk about this, or…” Panic swirled in him, making him stagger. Nothing was real right now, and he must needs grasp at anything; anything that wasn’t low swinging stars, the heavens making for his skull to brain him with the shifting weight of the cosmos. /Is this what it’s like for you? All the time, luv? Holy fuck; it’s awful./

“Don’t want that.” Her cutting gaze was back, to slice into him now like burning knives. “Don’t you see, Spike? All of it just reminds me of what I’ve already lost."

Her pain chased him out of the room, beyond the Slayer’s door, his nostrils flaring in passing as he thundered by. He didn’t stop. His guilt pounded in him like kettledrums as he fled into the night.

***

Spike didn’t come back for a long time, to spar or anything. Not that she minded that much. She was too uncomfortable, now she no longer had the distance previously offered by the psych meds, from reality. The one good thing about those stupid things; they had made it possible to not-care, really, about much of anything going on outside of her own head. Heck, they’d made it possible to not-care much about even the things that worried her, much less what went on in her own body. 

It was tough to face up to the world without them. To wonder if she’d done something wrong, made her host angry in some way. 

And, the meds she had been on, before, had also really done a lot to cushion the unhappy reality of things like cramps.

Ugh. 

***

He returned far too late, trapped by the knowledge that he couldn’t fix it. He couldn’t kill the girl to fix it, and thereby make it all better for himself and Dru. He’d thought of it; thought long and hard and furiously, buried to his eyebrows in whiskeys and worse, down at the demon bar in Carson. He thought of rending the chit to bleeding shreds on the floor of her room, in the heat of battle in the dojo he’d built for her… But the very thought of doing it, and venting all his terror, his frustration at the situation in that fashion stopped him cold.

Christ. It would make it all easier. It would maybe solve and salve things with his sire, his love, his reason for unliving for a hundred and damn near twenty years. And… 

He couldn’t do it. 

Fuck. Even thinking of it made his sodding stomach cramp up, made his fingers clench so tight around his shot-glass that he thought he’d crush the bloody stupid thing, and fuck, fuck fuck, oh god, what the fuck was wrong with him, what the sodding fucking hell had he been  _ thinking _ , letting himself get to such a pass with a Slayer—a goddamned  _ Slayer! _ —hell. Anyone at all! He was… 

Fucking hell; he was  _ Spike! _ Not only was he the Slayer of Slayers—and what a sodding laugh that was, right now!—but he was Drusilla Charles-Keeble’s willing slave, had been for six score years! And yet here he was, unable to even think of rending a mere slip of a girl to ribbons on her behalf, to make her whole, when he should’ve been able to turn the chit into a bloody mess of a party favor for his sire days ago, and what the fuck was his  _ problem? _

Far worse, the Slayer was a mere infant. She had the life experience of a fucking gnat—and about the same life-expectancy—so what was the bleeding point, anyway? 

He was as mental as she was. /I’ve finally gone mad, I reckon. Joined Dru on the barmy train, hitched my wagon as it’s pulled out of the soddin’ station./ 

Was it some sort of problem he had in his own thought-processes? /What is it? Do I fucking fall for people who are dependent on me, since that twit Cecily, because I know they can’t up and walk away, being as they need me? Is it some sort of daft self-protection policy?/ He couldn’t imagine any other fucking idiot reason to have done so. He had a real woman in Dru. Granted, she was a headcase, but she was most definitely a real woman, not a sodding sixteen-year-old or whatever the fuck the Slayer was. Honestly, the whole thing defied logic. /I was never that sort. Not even when I was alive, and that sort of thing was in vogue. I always wanted  _ women _ , not mere fucking girls. That was Angelus’ gig. Christ, what is it about this bird, anyway? She’s not even all there!/ 

/Fuck, am I so far gone, so bloody used to barmy, that I think I’m s’posed to fall for it every bleedin’ time I see it, now?/

He had a fucking problem. Maybe he was off his bleedin’ trolley as well. And one way or the other, he had to get his head on straight about it, because just when he’d thought it was some fool thing he could wrap his head around it and be done, it hit him again, full strength. /Dru Saw it. She brought us here because she Saw it. She  _ Saw _ me…/

His sire had Seen him leaving her for this fucking slip of a girl, and that just wasn’t bloody possible. He had to figure this out and see to it it stayed figured. And until then, he had to stay away. Which he did do; for almost a full twenty-four hours. The staying away bit, if not the figuring it out part. And by the time he was on his way back, he had found no fix for the problem. Not one. 

He also brought back something he’d meant to bring yesterday, for the chit. But only because he’d meant to already, and because right now he really couldn’t stand to be driven even further round the bend. He had too much to think about right now, to be dealing with  _ that _ , on top of every other sodding thing!

Christ, he was fucked.

***

Embarrassed didn’t even cover it. She’d been making do with TP and trying not to worry about how she would manage after day one—when, after she woke up from a nap and went over to pick at her food items to see what she was in the mood for, she found them hidden under the package of Fig Newtons. A box of tampons. 

Oh god. How did he know? That she… needed them? Was it just a lucky guess? She hadn’t been here that long (had she)? Or…

He’d been staying away. He hadn’t invited her out for a sparring sesh since…

God. Did he, like…  _ smell _ … 

She was sure she wouldn’t be able to face him, look at him at all the next time she left the room to work out. It was just too weird. It had been bad enough in the hospital, having to surface enough to ask for feminine supplies—not that her period hadn’t been all over the place there, between stress and drugs and the weird diet and everything else—but she hadn’t had this kind of… Well, friendship or whatever with the orderlies at the hospital that she was unmistakably building with this vampire (strange, but true). The hospital staff were medical professionals, and it had been their job to provide her with what she’d needed. As such, humiliating as it had been to ask for assistance with crap like that—stuff she should be able to just walk down the street to the corner store or the Safeway or whatever and provide for her damn self—she had been able to rationalize it even through the drug haze as, ‘It’s okay. It’s their job. They understand this stuff; they’re nurses and whatever’. 

This was different, and /Oh, God…/

The best she could do was to ignore it, let it fly by, try not to think about it, or she wouldn’t be able to deal at all.

He was maybe weirded out too? Or anyway, he didn’t talk to her at all, didn’t even try to catch her eye when he opened the door. Heck; he acted as if she wasn’t even there when he came back finally to resume their sessions. It reinforced her anxiety that she had maybe done something to piss him off, which made her even more anxious, but god knew she wasn’t going to ask him what was the what. She could barely look him in the face as it was. Stealing a few glances at his currently-stony periphery was about as much as she could manage. Opening up a conversation about his apparent black mood was way more than she was really prepared for.

Accordingly, she simply headed into the workout room in silence while he waited by the door, not entering at all, and jeez. Was it really such a big deal to him? Should she just… like…

God, she felt weird. Hunted. Observed. Strange, like she hadn’t with him ever, yet. At all, and it was freaking her out. She couldn’t get into the swing of things. Maybe if he stepped out, or… 

Of course, asking him to do that was way beyond what she felt comfortable doing, so she gamely fought to act normal, just do the thing. Tall order, though, when she was feeling was so far off her stride. She couldn’t concentrate, felt totally clumsy, even a little weak. Her timing was definitely crap. Her workout majorly suffered. 

Eventually, he broke the silence. “Problem?”

God, he sounded curt. “I just…” /Oh, God, what if he decided he doesn’t like me and wants to dump me back at the hospital, or… What is it? What if he just throws me out on the street, and I try to go back home—I mean, where else will I go, if he doesn’t want me here?—and my parents throw me right back in the hospital? I don’t have anywhere else! I don’t have other friends, anymore. Except for Pike, and I have no idea where he lives, or…/

Thoughts whirling, she felt every muscle tense, shook her head, stared at the floor, lost and uncertain and terrified. 

“You should maybe try stretching a bit before a workout. Limber up. You look tense. Might tear a muscle.” 

God, he sounded so… So impersonal. Nothing like who he’d been with her last time. /What  _ happened? _ What did I do wrong? What…/ 

“Get on, Slayer. It’s what you’re here for, innit?”

She couldn’t. Couldn’t deal at all. The tiny hairs on her arms and the back of her neck were all standing on end in his direction, like something about his mood was making her entire body freak out. Like she was some kind of sack of iron filings from a junior high science class and he was a huge magnet, and oh, god, having her back to him was the worst possible idea in the entire universe. It was making her massively jittery. 

She just couldn’t get up the energy to face her workout with him standing there  _ watching _ her like that; couldn’t think of a single thing to do to any of the equipment. She was too freaked out; and that was  _ before _ the part where she hadn’t really felt up to it today even before Mr. Bad and Moody had showed up with his ‘tude to make her feel like everything was falling apart. /Bloating and cramps do not exactly make a person gung-ho for this stuff. And okay, maybe I’m just being PMS-y… or during-MS-y, but if he doesn’t talk to me soon—like, actually  _ talk _ —I might just cry or something. Which is gonna be mega-embarrassing, but oh my God, seriously, what’s  _ wrong? _ / “I… don’t really feel up to this today,” she managed, still facing away from him, and heard the quaver in her own voice. “Maybe I’ll just do some yoga or something.” She hesitated, then, hoping maybe it might be some kind of opening. “Do you know any yoga?”

There followed what felt like an incredibly long silence, before he answered. “Know a bit of tai chi,” he allowed. And then, after another protracted moment, she heard a heavy exhale behind her, as if the vampire she had thought she’d come to know was surrendering, or something. She heard the grinding  _ whoosh-clunk _ as he gave in, pulled the heavy fire-door closed behind him, stepping fully into the room for the first time. She could feel him eyeing her. Then, finally, “You alright, Slayer?”

/Am I? I dunno. Are you? What’s going on?/ There were so many answers to that, but she chickened out at the last minute, because even embarrassment was easier to deal with than her terror that he might kick her out, toss her out on the street with no means of support, if he had decided he didn’t want her around, or… 

Humiliation with tax was a small price to pay for avoiding the real question here. And… clearly he already knew, so… She shrugged, back still to him. “Not feeling very on my game. Hurting a little.”

She thought she could actually  _ hear _ him still behind her, then, “Oh. Fuck. Sorry. Should’ve thought…” 

Then he surprised her by turning around and wrenching the door back open. “I’ll speak to one of the minions. It’s almost sunset. Send him out to fetch you some…” He halted briefly, as if searching his brain for the correct answer. “What is it?”

Still turned away from him, she felt her lips twitch. “Ibuprofen, Advil. That’d work.”

“Right. Stay here.” With a heavy flapping sound as his duster swirled, he was gone. 

God, he was attentive for a guy who said he wanted to fight her.

Out of nowhere, it seemed like they were almost back to normal. And she could breathe a sigh of relief. Whatever it was, he didn’t seem ready to throw her away.

The tears burning in her eyes had to be dashed away before he came back, the lump in her throat swallowed, or he’d see, and then… “So, what do you think I should work on?” she managed briskly when he reentered the room. Best earn her keep so he would, well, keep her. 

“I dunno, Slayer. Just get in shape however you want to.”

There it was again; a new, strange diffidence. Last time he’d been all up in her business, fascinated and intrigued and ready to offer advice, support; totally some kind of weird aficionado of all things Slayer. Like a big huge fan who’d studied up on her, like, kind or something. Now all the sudden he was backing out, acting like he didn’t care how she trained for their big fight or whatever, and it was just  _ bizarre _ . 

The words tumbled out of her before she could censor them. “Did I do something wrong? Because if I did…”

Something in the look in her eyes, something in her tone or in her face must have hurt him in some way, because when she risked a glance she saw that his stony, blank expression had finally cracked; like her question had made him fold in on himself. “Oh, hell. Fuck.” And he looked away, and she thought she saw something that looked like wetness around the edges of his eyes, and now he was wearing an expression that looked way frustrated, and weirdly torn. “No. Dammit.” And then he was watching her again, with that insane intensity in his crazy-blue gaze. “No, Slayer, you didn’t do anything wrong. I did. Don’t worry about it, alright? Just go on about your day. Nothing’s wrong, yeah? Just ignore me. I’m a giant ponce, but it has nothing to do with you.”

She blinked, uncertain what a ‘ponce’ was, but ready to take his reassurances at face value. He had a lot going on, she knew that much. Probably she was just being hormonal and selfish, assuming that everything about how he acted had something to do with her. He could be mad about something that had nothing at all to do with what was going on between the two of them, just like he was saying. He had no reason to lie to her, so… “Okay,” she answered quietly, and turned back to her abbreviated attempt at a training session. “Thanks.”

She was only a few seconds into the suggested stretches—they didn’t feel like too much—buying time for the ‘minion’ to come back with the promised Advil, when Spike spoke up again, sounding way more like his usual self. “Sorry, ah, that I haven’t brought you shoes yet. Not that you’ve needed ‘em, since the only places you’ve been are your room and the dojo, but no doubt the floor’s a bit cold to your warm little feet.” 

/Okay, random./ In spite of her confusion and all-around discomfort, she stole a sideways glance at him, saw that he was studying, apparently, her toes; almost as if he was afraid of looking her in the face, which was a new one. /I thought that was just me, today./ 

“Didn’t want to pick out the wrong size,” he finished, sounding something between embarrassed in his own right, and oddly self-castigating, which, okay?

She blinked, diverted away from her general freakout-of-the-day. “Oh. Uh, yeah. I wear, uh, size eight. Sometimes seven and a half; it depends on the shoe.” 

“Noted.” 

He was definitely giving her the wig at this point. Buffy found herself studying his face, his strangely constipated expression, searching for cues. “Alright, seriously; what’s up? You seem all bad and moody, and it’s weirding me out.” He’d opened up a little. He’d said it wasn’t about her. It made her bold enough to pry a little. 

Maybe she could even help. “Is there, like, something I can do, or…”

“Hm?” He shook his head, as if shaking off a black dog on his shoulder, but continued to avoid her eye. “Nothin’ you can do to help, pet. Nothing anyone can really do. My problem.” He snorted then, sounding wildly self-depreciating. “Have a bloody lot on m’ mind. Lot to be getting on with; most of it without a solution save time…”

She nodded, concerned. He seemed so  _ distant _ . “You mentioned another vampire; one you didn’t want me to meet. “Drew…”

He stilled briefly, then… /Ouch./ Went right back into the stone-faced thing. “Drusilla,” he chewed out the word, sounding oddly agonized. “My sire. My partner. She’s, ah… frustrated with me right now.” He frowned stormily, brows drawing together in a way that made the scar on the one side stand out all stark. “And then some. With good bloody reason.”

Something fluttered strangely in Buffy’s chest. /His partner./ She lowered fists she didn’t really feel like using anyway, leaned back against the nearest dummy to face him across the fifteen or so feet between them. It seemed like such a gulf right now. “Uh, well… That happens sometimes, I guess. How, uh, long have you been together?”

The answer was out without a moment’s pause to count. “A hundred seventeen years.”

“Wow.” Buffy was so floored that she felt her jaw drop down like one of those cartoon characters when they were hit over the head by an anvil. “How old  _ are _ you?”

His thoughtful blue eyes turned on her, unblinking. “A hundred and seventeen.” A short pause. “In vamp-years, anyroad.”

/Oh, dang./ As in, been a vampire for a hundred years before she’d even been born. And he’d been with the same woman for his entire… afterlife, or unlife, or whatever it was called. 

Talk about fidelity. “And it’s just been the two of you for… For…”

“For me, it has.” Intent, shocking blue, and, strangely, seeming to dare her or something; and, just,  _ wow _ . /My parents fight over whose turn it is to do the  _ dishes _ , and don’t talk for a couple days sometimes after a fight. They fight over me, over money, over... I wonder if Dad’s having affairs, with some of the stuff Mom’s said./ Lately, she’d sometimes wondered if they were going to make it. /And here’s  _ this _ guy, who’s been faithful to the same woman for over a  _ century _ . What  _ even _ ./

That was incredible. Monumental. Who could even compete with that? “That’s amazing. Wonderful. Congratulations,” she managed, feeling lame, but she really was awed. Stunned… and strangely let down, for some reason she couldn’t quite fathom.

“Yeah, well,” he agreed, then turned away to glance over his shoulder at the door behind him, as if more anxious than she was for one of his guys to show up with her ibuprofen. “It has its ups and downs. Right now is one of the downs, but we’ll get by.” His mouth flattened into something determined, unshakable. I’ll see to it.”

“I’m sorry things are… hard right now.” It exited her mouth automatically and as lamely as before.

She was answered with a one-shouldered shrug. “It happens.” He yanked the door open, had what sounded like a whispered consultation with someone, barked what sounded like an order, then, “Heads up.” And a small box was flying in her direction.

She caught it by reflex, stared at the container of off-brand ibuprofen that had smacked into her palm. “Water’s over there on the table. I’ve some business to attend to. I’ll be back in a few ticks.” He turned for the door again, but glanced once more over his shoulder before he left. “Go on, then, Slayer. Give it what you’ve got.”

***

He was a fucking idiot, was all. She would have no reason to have any idea what was on his mind either way. At best she’d be afraid he’d toss her out on her ear or some bloody thing. To her, all he was was a lifeline, and best he get his arse back in the saddle, get his mind and heart back on track and back in its right house. /Be true, you fucking sod. It’s what you’re s’posed to be good at!/ 

In any case, he’d pushed the chit too fast, in all ways of late; both physically, and, clearly, mentally, if the faintest blip in his own actions could make her fly off the handle like that. 

/Too dependent./ He needed to get her back on her feet and feeling confident. Then she’d be ready for their bout in a few days, he’d beat her in clean combat, and then he could wrap her up and give her to Dru the way he was meant to, and there’d be no more questions asked. That was all of it. 

/That’s  _ all _ , damn it! There’s nothing else to be done! Stop bloody planning to nick her shoes and all that other nonsense, and get your head on right, you fucking nancy! It doesn’t matter a whit what Dru saw, because she’s just a little lost girl, and you’re sodding monster who just needs a good, solid kill to get his head on straight! You’ve been spending too long being a bleedin’ caregiver. It’s put you in mind of…/

He stopped himself there. The demon in Mother had been wrong, and he was confused right now because he’d spent a century caring for Dru, and now he thought every time he cared for anyone he should fall for them, or some bloody stupid thing, and he needed to get over it, get past this, and get back to being the animal he was, no question!

/This too shall pass, and I’ll be me again. Right as rain. Just as soon as I kill her./

The poor chit had no idea her life was on the line. All that mattered now was how quickly she got herself into shape.

***

So, apparently Halloween was supposed to be every demon’s day off or something. Except, just her luck, right when Cordy decided to take Mr. Belvedere at his word and settle in with some way-overdue homework to catch up on her actual real life, some guy he used to know back in the day showed up in town and turned everyone and their dog into little demons, because he had… Well, Cordy never really fully got the skinny on that. Some kind of weird addiction to ‘Chaos-magicks’, or something, she thought it was? Whatever. Something Giles and Ms. Calendar talked about afterward in hushed tones, while that little dork Willow listened in clear fascination, because of course there should also be freaking  _ wizards _ or whatever around, on top of everything else she had to deal with in this town.

Also, Giles was acting way weird about this Ethan Rayne guy. Just for the record. Almost squirrely. At one point Ms. Calender had asked him something about him, and Giles had ducked his head, totally avoided her eye, and changed the subject, which would have been interesting if Cordy had remotely cared. But she really did have more important fish to fry than paying attention to the weird undercurrents of the geriatric set.

Though, she would have to give credit where it was due; out of the older bunch, at least Jenny Calendar knew how to dress to show herself off. The girl had style. What someone like her was doing pursuing a fuddy-duddy like Giles was beyond her. The guy was so out of style he had dust on him. But whatever; to each their own, right? Maybe she liked tweed.

Anyway, Cordy eventually had to drop the homework and actually participate in the Halloween thing, like a total nerd—as in, not in the fun, dress in something sexy and hang with the jocks at a fashionable teen party kind of Halloween participation—heck no. She had to spend the stupid night wandering around the streets with a bunch of waist-high, tiny, murderous demon-lets—but not kill them, let’s be clear, because they were technically people’s kids. Like, okay. Why let them out on the streets this late, to get all hopped up on sugar, if you didn’t want ‘em to be in danger of their lives, right? Heck, Snyder had tried to corner her—along with those other two dopes, Xander and Willow—to get them to do some kind of dumb chaperon-y service for the under-three-foot set. Cordy had barely escaped with her life, today, only to be roped into the whole thing anyway, tonight.

Well, at least while she was out there she had ended up running into Angel, who was out taking in the night air and, like, who knew. Being confused or something? “Hey there, big guy. I thought vampires take the night off on Halloween.”

Big brown, chocolatey headlights bathed her with soft concern. “So did I.”

God, he was cryptic. But that didn’t stop her from snagging his arm and forcing him to be her hunky escort as she wandered the streets not-killing tiny, horned, morphed five-year-olds or whatever.

In the end, she hooked up with her two stooges, Xander (who was apparently also taken over by his costume, and was being an army guy or something… and, also, as a side-note, acting distressingly kind of randomly hot and confident, which was bizarre), and Willow, who was, get this, invisible (which, shades of Marcie, much?), and could walk through walls, which was new. She was apparently a ghost, which, um, yeah, so original. Anyway, they eventually solved the sitch, got Giles to yell at his ex-buddy or whatever this Ethan Rayne guy was, knocked over his altar to… Saturn or something? And that was the end of the Halloween craziness.

Or so they thought, until they found out that somehow the overwhelmingly chaotic vibe of the night did some kind of number on the Master’s prison, and he managed to squeak out a bunch of his best boys to try to slaughter all the kiddies on their way home from trick-or-demoning, which necessitated her going all uber-Slayer on a bunch of Aurelians—again—and asking Angel to put up or shut up once and for all when it came to these guys. “Look, I know you don’t want to…”  _ Stake. Kick. _ “…Piss off your grandfather or whatever, but…”  _ Punch, duck _ . “…It’s time to make a stand. Take sides…”  _ Back-spin-kick _ . “Announce your allegiance or whatever.”  _ Tuck and roll, come up swinging. _ “I mean, you staked Darla. Which I guess could…”  _ Stake to the heart, pivot, front-kick _ . “…Count as a family squabble thing, but you also…”  _ Roundhouse kick, elbow-strike. _ “…Helped me get that Luke guy, and you…”  _ Duck, forward-roll, stake. _ “…Offed that little kid...” 

She paused, puffed her hair out of her eyes, as her remaining three attackers backed off for a breather. “And I get those were all things where no one lived to go back and tell him it was you, but it’s  _ time _ , Angel. Put up or shut up.”

He stared at her, all sad-eyed and moody, and shook his head. “You have no idea what you’re asking. What could happen. What might come from this.” And then to her surprise he cupped her face… and turned away from her to drive a stake into the heart of one of the Aurelian bullyboys who’d been coming at her from behind. 

As the nameless vamp exploded into dust, the last two of their combatants stared at him, pulling up, then turned away to flee back the way they’d come.

“That’s it,” Angel told her as the literal dust settled. “No way out now.”

The way he said it actually really unnerved her.

***

He just had to go on as he was doing. That was the thing. He couldn’t let it overflow onto the girl. After all, it was himself he was angry with, not her. Wasn’t her bloody fault. He hadn’t been prevaricating when he’d told her so. She wasn’t remotely aware of the source of his problem, so how could she bear any of the blame? /Stop snapping at her, she’s no idea, you ponce./ 

He had to contain himself, stop being a mercurial prat… even if frustration was like to kill him.

For one, he didn’t feel comfortable in his own sodding nest anymore. He was uncomfortable around Dru, uncomfortable around the fucking Slayer. It made him feel odd and off his sodding game around the minions; like they could see right through him, or maybe that they might be whispering about him behind his back. They’d know, after all, that something had gone sideways.

He had no idea where he was supposed to fucking sleep.

Dammit, he supposed he could still kip next to Dru, but it just felt wrong. Not that he’d  _ done _ anything wrong, really, but… /To hold lust in one’s heart…/ 

He knew she’d forgiven him, on one level, at least. After all, it wasn’t bloody well on him that they’d come here. It was all at least half on her. But if she’d taken responsibility for her part one day… Dru’s clear-thinking moments were few and far between. He never knew when her pixies might turn on him, forget that she’d settled the business inside her own head. He could be taking his unlife in his hands to lie next to her.

It was an unpleasant prospect, and didn’t make for a relaxing rest period. Not to mention, he spent most of it tossing and turning anyroad, his thoughts full not of the beautiful, alluring vampire at his side, as they had been for over a century, but of the sodding fucking goddamned  _ Slayer _ . 

He didn’t dream of the kill, anymore. Not of hunting, not of taking down prey; not of the struggles, the smell of terror, the precious moment when the light flickered in their eyes and the heart stuttered beneath his hand, at the pulse-point of their throats as they guttered out; as he drank the last, sharply-flavored hints of life’s blood from their bodies. 

No. He only dreamed of the fucking Slayer. Of her tresses, two-toned right now but golden as the sun in his mind’s eye. Of her querying, oddly incisive eye, which looked at him and  _ saw _ him, and seemed to give a damn how he was getting on. Of the way the flecks of gold shifted in the green, and the caring he imagined he saw in her gaze, like a great pillock. Of the intelligence of her unexpected queries… and the way she could flash into a strike, or a block, without warning. The fucking amazing, raw strength of her.

And, Christ; did she have to smell so good? 

The scent of the Slayer, now completely sans drugs, was like sodding ambrosia, and it haunted him. No longer masked by the bitter, chemical tang that had harshened her own personal odors with a pall of factory, of the unwonted, of the unnatural, she now smelt of herself. The aromas of girl and of predator were only lightly overladen with the alcohol-and-petroleum-rich perfumes of the shampoos and things he’d purchased for her to make her feel pleased with her state; scents she’d find pleasant because humans and part-humans, with their godawful, poor senses of smell, never caught the underlying bases of their toiletries, and only cottoned onto the false ‘flavors’ of the things. But the natural aroma of her was fascinating, under all that; something both comforting and wild, strong and free, slightly frightened, but mostly just… willing, if that was a scent, and fuck if it didn’t drive him barmy.

He was going on far too many benders of late, trying not to react to her. Not to mention, avoiding sparring with her like a bloody plague. 

Didn’t help, though. He remembered all too well the smell-taste and the feel of her. They’d only had the one session, but the solid reality of strikes and blocks against her firm, young body echoed still in his mind and on his flesh; so athletic, strong and powerful, rebounding hot against him. The tang of her sweat swelled still at the back of his throat; a tangible thing as he breathed hard and heavy in the remembered excitement of the fight, and…

/Fuck./ He rolled over, toward the wall on the pallet he’d made for himself in the far corner of one of the unused rooms of the warehouse, and fisted his cock. /Fuck, fuck, fuck!/

Chit couldn’t be more than sixteen at most. He’d paid next to no attention to that bit of information, in the sheaf of paperwork he’d liberated from the hospital, focusing largely on the list of medications and that. The necessary stuff. He’d been a man on a mission, then. And now, he couldn’t bring himself to look it over again. He didn’t want to fucking know. Besides; none of it mattered. /You’re such a bleedin’ ponce./ 

His mind kept circling around to the same maddening query. What the hell had he been  _ thinking? _ /Clearly I wasn’t; with any of this!/ Was it all just some sort of fantasy, trumped up by his sex-starved brain, just in hopes of getting his prick wet? Christ knew he’d had little enough touch of late.

But, no, it wasn’t all about that. Yeah, he hadn’t had a decent shag with Dru in far too long. Yeah, he found the Slayer bloody attractive, that was certain enough. She was fucking glorious, after all; especially when she fought. And, god knew he wondered what it’d be like to shag something with a pulse, warm and that—it sounded like a dangerous mix of heaven and hell, yeah? But at the root of it? 

It was less about the base, carnality of things than that he was  _ interested.  _ Damnitall, he found the chit intriguing; and wasn’t that infuriating. Certainly he found Dru fascinating in her own right, had for years… But after all these decades, the mystery of her childlike visions and her oddity, the way she spoke and the like, had worn off a bit. The romantic novelty of being the only one who truly understood her, because he had been a poet, and could recognize the meaning of things beyond others’ ken, of feeling ‘meant for’ her… The shine of it had faded now under the reality of knowing that he was as much caregiver as lover, bearing up under the weight of something from which his partner would never be free, and knowing that, no matter how devoted, his love would never, ever heal her. 

Moreover, and far worse, was the staggering weight of knowing that his love was not, would never be, the love she wished for. 

It hurt, sometimes, more than he could ever bear, to be locked into this endless dance with the woman, he’d thought, of his dreams, only to find that loving Dru would never give him all he had craved all his life—both lives—and there was no way out of that vicious circuit. He was committed, he was hers, and that was all of it. He was Drusilla’s man, he had earned her, he would never let her go, and if that meant never being loved the way his decades of endless devotion deserved. Well, he knew, had always known that she loved him as well as she was able. And that was a lot, wasn’t it? More than most ever got from her. It was…

But he still wanted, somewhere in the depths of his traitorous heart, the love of a woman who only wanted him, and could give him all the rest. Fuck; he wanted to be truly  _ wanted, _ for all that he could offer, rather than merely needed for how he could care for someone.

He wanted to be  _ loved _ .

/What a prat you are. Always wanting more than you have. Never fucking happy. Nothing’s ever enough for you. Making it sound as if it’s Dru’s fault; as if she’s not good enough, you disloyal twat!/ 

This was the last traitorous dregs of the man in him; the one he had thought shucked away from him so many scores of years ago. The one Angelus and Dru and the rest had tried so hard to help him eradicate. Somehow the bloody fool had come roaring back; and it was him—fucking stupid wally that he was—who wanted the Slayer, just as much as the monster in him. It was the side of him Dru had never wanted. Dru had always wanted the demon in him; strong, to keep her safe, and only secondarily the caregiver in him. She had ever fought the perverse, fatal flaw of gentleness in him that had wanted to love her, even as she had needed it to keep her going when she’d faltered, after Angelus had left them. And now. Now, while she was so weak… 

Meanwhile, Buffy… 

/Oh, fuck./ He saw it now. What a git. He somehow had himself idiotically convinced that the Slayer might want the man, as much as her demonside might enjoy the monster in him. And wasn’t that the rub, that he had spent a century trying to crush out the man, only to have it become important today? /You’re a fucking idiot, you know that, Spike? As if you could ever make yourself good enough for her; be what she’d want! You eat her charges, and nothing’s gonna change that, you wet fool!/

He closed his eyes on the incipient, frustrated tears, hand still on his prick. /Stop it, you goddamned ponce! Stop, just stop! You are  _ not _ a man! You’re a bloody monster; a  _ vicious _ …/

“Hey, boss.” One of the minions, calling tentatively from the doorway. “Sorry to bug you, but, uh, the Slayer’s calling you. She says she needs your help with something?”

“Right.” Fuck, his voice was rough. “Get out of here. I’ll take care of it.” 

He had to get control of himself. Had to be what he came here to be. Had to be a right old monster, because he was…

/Goddammit./ 

When the door swung open to show her standing there, he shivered. Her eyes were bright, she looked so bloody glad to see him, and… And it was probably just her being grateful that he’d helped her, but fuck if he wouldn’t wait for her. He would help her, he would see to it she had what she needed, and of course this entire damned time she would only think of him as some sort of bloody nursemaid, just as Dru had, what the fuck was he doing, what the bloody fuck was his sodding problem? /Christ, you’re such a wet fucking nancy prat, you pillock…/ 

But he couldn’t help it, he was hers, he was lost, /Damn, damn you, Spike, why the  _ fuck _ did you have to fall for a sodding Slayer, you ponce, oh Christ, oh fuck…/ “What can I do for you, Slayer?” he heard himself ask, his voice sounding odd even to his own ears.

Her expression faltered a little. “I was just wondering if maybe there was a way I can get those shoes you were talking about. And maybe…” She trailed off, sounding hopeful.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, praying she wouldn’t want to leave, once he got her the former, wondering what she’d ask for in the latter, unspoken request. “Yeah?”

She smiled on him like the sun, and Christ, how it burned. “Maybe some hair dye? I know it sounds stupidly self-centered, but you’ve been so cool about all the other stuff, and I think I can maybe get it done in one of those sinks, and I thought maybe you’d get it, since you bleach your own hair, but I just dunno if I can deal with my roots hanging out like this anymore; they’re like four or five inches long, I feel like a zebra or something…”

He closed his eyes briefly, overwhelmed with several opposing emotions, all jousting within him for supremacy. “Yeah, Slayer,” he murmured. “I can do that. I can probably guess at the one you want, unless you remember.” The words were out before he could censor them. “Or you could just come with me to buy the stuff.”

Her gasp of surprise brought his gaze back to her. She was staring at him in amazement. “You wanna take me  _ shopping?” _

He shrugged uncomfortably, wondering just what the fuck he was thinking. Sitting in a car with her? Would be immersing himself in a tiny, uncontrolled hell, filled with her scent, her small sounds, her smiles, what the fuck was he thinking? Watching her flit excitedly from one item to another…

He realized just then that it wouldn’t work. “Well, maybe it’s a bad idea. I don’t exactly pay for things when I ‘shop’. No doubt that would offend your sensibilities.” And why did he feel an unaccountable sense of disappointment, of regret, at the thought that he couldn’t take the girl out for a spin in the sodding DeSoto? /Fucking pillock./

Her hands dropped to her sides. “Oh. Do you, uh, steal everything?” She looked uncomfortably over to the pile of foodstuffs and clothing he’d left for her atop the nearby folding table where he always set the objects he purloined for her on every outing. “All of this?”

He tried a dismissive, one-shouldered shrug _. “Vampire. _ Don’t exactly consider myself part of human society.”

“Oh.” She looked down at the floor. “Right.” Her face closed up, the excitement that had been building there fading out, and oh, Christ, that was awful to see. “Well, I feel bad now using any of it. But, I mean,” she began, dragging in another audibly deep breath, “I guess it’s not like you can, uh, get a job or whatever, right? So…” She did a little hand-wave, as if trying to blow it off. “Can you just… not tell me stuff like that anymore?”

He exhaled hard, feeling oddly torn, and for the first time in his long unlife, actually fucking guilty for stealing things. Which was bloody stupid, since he wasn’t bound by human strictures. And, anyroad, it wasn’t as if he was nicking stuff from tiny, mom-and-pop establishments barely keeping their heads afloat. This shite was from places like sodding Nordstroms and that; big box places what had fucking massive insurance departments to cover millions of dollars worth of loss per year due to shoplifting alone; and sporting goods places like fucking REI. Not one of them would miss it when he lifted a bleeding blouse or two, or a couple of boxes of sodding protein bars! “Look, pet… None of this stuff is coming from somewhere that’d miss it. It’s all covered. Not one of these stores is going out of business… and if I were to leave cash behind on the register to cover it, where d’ya think I’d have to go to get the cash?”

She lifted her eyes, blinked at him as she absorbed the meaning behind his words. “From… robbing people?”

“People I’d drained, yeah. Not that they’d miss it anymore, a’ course, but the fact remains…”

Horror blanched her face, and she drew back from him, receding back into the room he’d build for her. “How can you… help me, and still be… doing  _ that?” _

It was his turn to frown at her in confusion. “Doing what? Feeding?” /Oh, hell./ “I’m a  _ vampire _ , dammit! I have to eat to live!” What the bloody hell did she  _ want _ from him?

“Oh…” she whispered, and backed further into the room. “I didn’t… think… of that.” Nodding, she stepped back once more, her calves striking her makeshift bed. “Yeah. I, uh…” Sitting in that way that said she’d more fallen than anything, she looked away; to anywhere rather than him. “Right.”

/Oh, hell./ Had she thought he was some sort of… lackbrained… Romeo… toothless… “I am what I am, Slayer,” he bit out harshly, and caught up the door. “Told you as much. You and I are gonna fight, sometime. This is just the intermission.” And he yanked the door closed on her, slapped the padlock back on—for his own safety, now, as well as his own—and marched away down the chill, echoing corridor toward Dru.

It was done, then. Over. 

Best thing for everyone, after all.

* * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


HEH.  
Good luck with that, Spikey.  
  
It's fun to negotiate the feeding question with a Buffy who hasn't been inculcated with all the prejudices she later picked up from Giles and Angel, so that it's just a straight, across-the-board question of tactics and flat-out WWBD pre-death, with her young, untainted conscience and without so much Council brainwashing (none of that 'soulless' stuff, no 'you can't love' crap, etc). Which is a lot of the fun of this story, yo, but makes her a little bit of a blank slate to extrapolate. Not that she doesn't have enough to be getting on with either way!  
  
Oh, also... I had previously picked “Charles“ for Drusilla’s last name. The wiki thinks it’s “Keeble”, which is old and English enough, so I just ended up hyphenating them to make them work.  
  
Thank you all for all your lovely feedback on this experiment of a fic!!! Y'all rock.


	8. Un-Prophesied

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still working on answering y'all! Thank you so much for all your kind words. 
> 
> The unexpected is around every corner in this bit.
> 
> Only one person expects it all. Because some things are Prophesied... and some things have changed utterly from what was meant to be. 
> 
> Oh, so, since it came up in conversation with wolf_shadoe, I thought I'd take the time to make an excuse. I have recently/belatedly realized that I go back and forth on my spellings here and there, depending on which POV I'm in. I'm not trying to drive anyone insane, but I honestly can't help myself when I'm in SpikePOV (or, in other fics, GilesPOV). I spent too long getting UK spellings beaten into my head for university-level essay-writing at one point, and used said spelling and grammar for a year, so when I'm in that head-space, I automatically code-switch. Half the time I don't even notice I'm doing it (and my beta uses UK spellings, so probably doesn't notice either half the time, lol)... On the rare occasion I do notice I'm doing it, I can't seem to make myself go with the whole, 'Pick one set of spellings for the whole story' theory, because my brain is convinced it's more important to be true to the characters than to be consistent across the fic. So I guess it's just going to end up being a weird artifact of my writing style or something. I don't even see them. Sorry about it. (Honestly, it's so much better than when I first came back to the US. Y'all should've seen my first published fic, an X-files series. I'd switch back and forth mid-sentence. "The tyres bounced up over the curb, and the fetus inside of her turned over as if horrified by the car's behaviour." That sort of thing. It was no doubt maddening to the readers.)

** Sec.8B: Un-Prophesied  
  
**

She had to get away. Had to figure out how to escape. 

Her parents were out, of course. If she told them where she’d been since she disappeared from the hospital, they’d just freak out and throw her back in again. 

Maybe the next time Spike opened up the door to give her some sparring time—he still wanted to fight her, after all; he’d said it—she could make her escape, bail, go try to find Pike, and…

It was just really hitting her, now, that this was a prison, just as much as the hospital had been. It was prettier, but she was at Spike’s mercy. At the mercy of a vampire who ate people, and why the hell hadn’t she thought of that when he was being all nice to her and whatever? That he must have some weird reason for it, even if she didn’t know what that was? After all, he was still a vampire! Heck, that was the first thing he’d reminded her of before he’d opened the door to let her out, that first time. Why would she decide he was somehow different, or…

/God, I have to get out of here. I have to… find Pike somehow, and then…/

The problem was, she had no idea how to accomplish any of that. She didn’t even know where  _ she _ was, much less where Pike lived—how had she never found out where Pike lived?—and it wasn’t like she was made of money right now. What if she was in, like, Inglewood, or Torrance, or… heck; freaking San Bernardino! She had no clue at all! She could be _anywhere,_ and she didn’t even have _bus_ money! 

Once upon a time she wouldn’t have been caught dead on a city bus. Now she would give anything for the fare to ride one, if she was even in LA at all! 

Pike was a senior at Hemery, so he definitely had to live somewhere in the general vicinity of her neighborhood. She could look in the phonebook. She just had to get back to Santa Monica, and then…

/Oh, God. Pike was a senior when I was hanging with him. He’s graduated by now. He probably moved. He wanted to get out of here, now he knows about vampires. He could’ve gone to…/

He could’ve gone  _ anywhere _ .

All her thought processes ground to a halt. She had no plan. She didn’t even have  _ shoes _ , and why didn’t she have those yet? Was Spike trying to make sure she stayed here? /Oh, God, how did I get this so wrong?/

Signs flashed before her eyes, as if limned in neon. ‘No shirt, no shoes, no service’, and when had she become one of those… those people who were have-nots? /Since I ended up a crazy-person in a mental ward with no belongings of my own, and then a ‘guest’ of a vampire, living in some kind of stripped-down warehouse…/

She had thought she was getting a handle on things, relearning her identity, but this thought made it all crash down again. /Who  _ am _ I?/

***

He knew what he had to do now. It was all over anyway. 

He went to Dru, knelt before her; the penitent seeking forgiveness for his crimes. “Do you want to come and have her now, love? I can hold her for you.” He bit back the fucking stupid sob that wanted to threaten him, throttled it to the back of his throat. “C’mon, let’s just have it over, yeah? I’ll hold her down, you can drink her, you’ll be all better, and then we’ll be us again…” /Just me and Dru, to take on the world, forever and ever, world without end. It’ll be better. She’ll be strong again. We’ll be fine. It’ll be…/

One cool, comforting, long-fingered hand grazed his face; just the fingertips, till he lifted his head to watch her warily. And when he did… Christ, the look in her eyes. Loving, sorrowful acceptance. No more anger, no more frustration, just a sort of weary sadness. “You can’t kill her, my Spike,” she told him; a sire gently chastising her childe. “You love her.”

It broke in him, like the tide. “Doesn’t matter,” he managed, still fighting back the idiot sobs. “She knows what I am, doesn’t want me, so best to just get on…”

Fingers he knew better than anything in the world slid up, caressed his hair, gave him a little grab and a shake. Which was the first time he noticed he hadn’t bothered to gel back his hair in a day or so, and Christ, he was falling apart. “Silly, bad dog. You haven’t even asked. Became the bad dog for mummy. Can be anything you want to be, my Spike.” And when he glanced up, confused, “Danced with me, whirling in the blood and the bodies, for a hundred years. My dark knight, my beautiful monster. But there’s a part of you wants more; always has. And she. Touches. You. There.” Long-nailed fingers, walking down his chest to prod him; at the throat, at the dead heart, at the root of his cock. “It’s why you can’t kill her for me, my knight.” She closed her eyes then, going cloudy with visions. “I’ve asked and I’ve asked, inside my own head, ‘Why can’t you kill her, Spike? Why can’t you kill her for me?’ But I know why, don’t I? And so do you. And it’s not going to change, so you must.”

And there it was; right before him, plain as day and blunt as a wall falling on his world. 

If anyone on the whole bleedin’ planet knew him through and through, it was his maker. “Fuck, Dru,” he whispered, because she was right. Time he stopped trying to fool himself. He might be a vicious monster, but he was also the Slayer’s, now. The chit needed him, and that meant he’d be what she needed him to be, just like he had for Dru before her. If she needed him to change, he would, because he was already doing so; fuck, he was so sunk. 

And it gutted him.

“Knew,” Dru went on, stroking him again, up along his jaw, to cup his cheek, “that if you didn’t give her to me the first night you had her, that you’d be hers. Never be mine again.” She pouted then, her lovely lips now a moue of regret. “Doesn’t matter how it ends. She’s always been meant to burn you up, turn you into the phoenix. ‘S what you are, when she’s about. You’ll burn, and rise again, another creature altogether. Again, and again, for her. Might as well start gathering the kindling for the fire.”

He closed his eyes, choking with the sorrow of it; the pain in her voice. “I’m so bloody sorry, Dru. I didn’t want this. I…”

“I know.” The sadness she betrayed didn’t even sound like resentment, anymore, which made it even worse. He knew why the pixies were keeping her on edge, between this acceptance and the other. Fuck; he’d done such a poor job of holding her safe. 

/She’s not even well yet, and you’re acting as if you’re ready to desert her; just fucking replace her with another chit who needs you but doesn’t love you, and meanwhile you’re ready to up and leave your sire to fend for herself; the woman who made you everything you are! What a sodding ungrateful…/

“You’ll do your best to do right by me. You always have. But in the end… If Drusilla needs something, she’ll have to take it. It’s the way it’s meant to be, my sweet.” Another stroke of his distressingly un-coiffed locks. “We’ve been joined together in a circle, my knight, for six-score years, neither moving. If we’re ever to change, we need to spin outward, into another dance.”

Was she saying… they’d gone still, locked in tandem? That if he needed to grow, and she needed to be healed, it wasn’t them as would do it for each other?

He had thought they were so right for one another! “Dru, I…”

“She’ll help you to become. And I… I need to become, as well. Become something other. The pixies have been holding me back, with you. I need another reason to speak.”

He narrowed his eyes at this. What the hell did his presence have to do with how her sodding pixies talked to her? And then there was the other. “She’ll help me to become what, Dru? She doesn’t even know what’s on my mind, and if she did…”

“It’s what’s meant to be, my Spike,” she murmured, and turned away to lie on the bed with her back to him. “Everything’s gone sideways. No Slayer for me, no peace for you. Not till we decide our paths for ourselves. Gone all muddled, it has; a thousand roads, all stretched out before us, and not one decided…”

He closed his eyes, fought the urge to slam his hands hard alongside his head in frustration. /You’re the one who brought us here, told me where to find her! This is your bloody fault!/ The internal accusation warred with the agony he felt for what he’d done, to them both, by virtue of his weakness, and…   
  
"...The warp of the loom has been re-strung, and the weft a skein of a whole new colour. And only those who have Vision can see the the hues of the weave in the growing darkness, the flickering light." The singsong murmurs went on in the background of his thoughts, haunting him. "You've followed me through the dark for Ages, my knight; but now you're needed to add light to her spark, so she can illuminate the patterns of a new tapestry..."  
  
She was lost in visions; almost constantly now, while he fucked off elsewhere, leaving her alone to drown. Fuck. “I need to do more for you, Dru. To care for you. I haven’t done right by you, and I’m sorry…”

She stirred slightly, and he heard a faint smile in her voice when she answered. “You can draw me a bath,” she informed him, sounding pleased. “Wash my hair, give it a pull…”

He was both heartened and pained to know there was something he could do for her, to make her feel cared for. He still loved her; had loved her for several lifetimes. Would always. But Christ, it would hurt to know that what he could do for her, he would likely never have with the other. And what he wanted with the other, now, was the thing that held him separate from the one to whom he had once tendered his entire being.

***

When she heard his voice at the door once more, heard the click of the lock opening, she squared herself for battle. She ran through her plan again, flashing through her mind. 

_ Clock him in the face before he expected it. Jump over him while he was still prone; a big jump, so he couldn’t grab her ankle or something, or she’d end up facedown in the hallway. Make a dash for it. Dust his ‘minions’, when he roared after them to grab her…  _

She assumed they would be other vampires. She thought he’d mentioned something to the effect that they couldn’t go out till sundown, which pretty much meant vampires, right?  __

_ Get out onto whatever street they were on, get her bearings (hopefully the sun was still up, which would help her, though she had no idea right now, which really made it worse, right?)…  _

The realization of yet another controlled thing about her environment was shattering. But she kinda thought that Spike always came to her in the evening—his morning—which meant she would be lucky to hit sunset, out there, and she would have to make the most of it. 

_ Bail off down the street. Stay out of alleys, maybe call for help—but not say the word ‘vampire’, of course. No sense getting herself thrown back into the mental hospital—and hopefully not get any good Samaritans killed by the pissed-off vampire chasing after her to recapture her. And then, refuse to tell anyone she met her name or anything. That way lay getting sent back home, to parents who would just toss her back into the hospital.  _

She was a little vague on the details after that.  _ Hitchhike up to Santa Monica, then, find a phone book, beg someone for a couple quarters, call Pike, pray he still even lived in town, was home _ …

The door was cracked now. She dragged in a deep breath, preparing herself. And the second she had enough room to do so, she swung up with a high front-kick, catching Spike just under the chin.

Or, rather, she  _ meant _ to catch him just under the chin. Except, somehow, he got there before she could connect, and  _ damn _ , he was fast. He caught her foot in his two cool hands, and…

And, for some reason, he didn’t twist her ankle, throw her down, say something snarky about her being too slow, slam the door shut again. He just cupped her heel and stood there, watching her through illegible eyes while she breathed fast and fought to recalculate some sort of way to get around her lost advantage, while her brain freaked out and her body leapt into a massive adrenaline dump, and…

“Didn’t come in here to fight, Slayer,” he informed her softly, and there was something deeply pained-sounding in the back of his voice. “If I let go, will you leave off? I was hoping to talk.”

“Talk?” she demanded, incredulous. “I thought… I thought you were  _ different _ , somehow! I mean, you had me here, you were helping me, but now I realize you’ve just had me in prison, just like  _ them…” _

He jerked at her words, and released her ankle like she’d stabbed him in the heart. She barely noticed. “And… you’re no different from Lothos and his guys! You’re out there every night,  _ killing _ people, and I’m the  _ Slayer! _ And you’re just keeping me locked up so I can’t do anything about it, and I…” She was horrified to find there were tears starting behind her eyes, and god, she felt helpless, and it wasn’t okay, none of this was okay, but she hadn’t expected the feeling of betrayal, much less the way it mixed with the wholly unexpected sensation of guilt; like she had faltered at some sort of sacred duty. 

Merrick had called it that. Her ‘sacred duty’, her ‘calling’. And now Merrick was dead. He had killed himself to give her time to escape, and fulfill said duty. He had  _ killed _ himself to stay out of the hands of a vampire like this. He had… And now she was… Was, like, being  _ friendly _ with a… With…

“Oh, God, this doesn’t make  _ sense! _ I can’t  _ do _ this!” Tearing her leg away from his cupped palms, she swung on the stupid vampire just standing there in the half-open doorway. “And  _ you! You _ can’t do this! You’re a  _ vampire; _ what are you even  _ thinking?  _ You’re crazy, what are you…”

“Hell if I know,” he answered, stark and frank and sounding as scared as she did. 

His tone completely arrested her. “What?” 

“I have no fucking clue what I’m doing, Slayer,” he admitted softly. “I came and got you because it wasn’t right, what they were doing to you there, and because after living for over a hundred bloody years, fighting Slayers is the one thing that makes me feel alive. Real.”

/Real. Oh God./

“The rest of it is just marking time. Wreaking havoc just for something to do. For the thrill; any thrill. When I kill, it’s just the same old carousel anymore; they cry, and whine, I take them, I feed, it’s over, it starts again. Nothing new to it. I’m not Angelus. I don’t take any joy out of dragging it out. It’s fun for a moment, it gets the blood pumping, it relieves the monotony... and then it’s over.”

/Wait. Who the hell is Angelus?/

“And Dru and I…” He closed his teeth briefly, neck cording with some sort of strain she could see, but didn’t understand. “So I thought we’d fight, and if you got me, you’d be free, and if I got you, I’d feel better than I’ve felt since 1977, and Dru would be right again, and we’d go on living as we’d always had till I found the next one. The next high, the next something bright to make the whole thing seem worth it; because the years get long, and everything is a whirl, and there are still highs, yeah, but there’s nothing…” His eyes bored into hers then, electric blue and intense as a falling star.  _ “Nothing _ like fighting you.”

Though he was talking about horrible things—killing, eating people—one thing struck her full in the face. What must it be like to live on like that, for a hundred years or more? Long enough for everything to start to feel like circuits of the same thing, over and over again? To where something even like killing people just felt like a run-of-the-mill habit; like combing your hair, or eating cereal, and where you were so desperate for something new to relieve the tedium that only fighting someone like her—someone built to fight vampires—was exciting enough to…

/I’m like… riding a roller-coaster to him, or skydiving, or… Because none of that can kill him, or make him feel even a little bit worried. He doesn’t have a heart to get pumping. He was probably excited by all that murder stuff at first, but the novelty’s worn off, and now only a Slayer…/ And it was only then that it really struck her, full in the face, how rare she was, how different than other people, that someone like this would spend years seeking her out. Would rescue her from the looneybin, nurse her back to health, train her, even…

/Just to fight me. Just to feel alive./

It was all so alien to a person like her, who had barely had time to feel alive at all. Who was still striving to find her way in life. Who had barely had the chance to  _ live _ before it had all been stolen from her, first by the reckoning of a Watcher and a Calling, and then by eight months incapacitation in a hospital, under the aegis of rules and drugs. Fighting those vamps outside the school had been terrifying; the realization that she could die any second, at fifteen, and god, she wanted to live more than anything. She wanted her life back, wanted to be free. And Spike? He’d had a life of no rules, no holds barred, nothing holding him back for so long that it had become cloying… and they were total opposites, weren’t they?

Did he want to fight her just because she reminded him of what it was like to feel mortal? Was that all? 

Could he show her what it felt like not to fear death? 

“Look, dammit!” she began, confused and frustrated and just completely thrown by all of this. “If you wanna fight me, we can’t keep on like this! It has to be my  _ choice! _ I can’t sit in here, just be your… Your  _ prisoner _ , alright? You’re gonna have to take the risk that I might leave! I get to go buy my own products, and find my own shoes, and… and…”

“What do you want, Slayer?” God, he sounded tentative.

It burst out of her. “I want the keys to my own stupid room, you idiot! Obviously I can protect myself! I wanna know where I am—like, are we in Compton, or Riverside, or freaking San Diego, or…”

“Long Beach,” he broke in, softly.

“Okay!” she snapped back, too surprised at his immediate answer to moderate her tones. “I won’t stake your stupid girlfriend as long as she doesn’t come at me…”

“I’ll see to it she doesn’t.” Again, quiet, certain, and leaving her agape. Was he really going to just accede? Give her the keys to her own room in the hopes that she’d hang around?

“What else, luv?” Spike asked her, a very strange look in his eye as he said it.

She stared at him, utterly taken aback. God, did he really want her to stay that bad, that he was willing to… “I can’t stay here with a vampire who’s killing people,” she admitted, modulating her voice to a low, frustrated tone. “I’m sorry. I know you need to eat, but is there any way you can… not kill them, and still live? I mean, is there something else you can do to… Like, I still don’t know how I feel about this ‘calling’ thing, but if I just…  _ sit _ around and…”

“It’s against everything you’re made for. I know it.” He bit his lip, which was, by the way, a scarily vulnerable-looking thing for him to do, and glanced away, eyes wet. “I don’t have to kill to eat. It’s a great fucking hassle not to, but I can catch-and-release…”

She found herself stunned at his admission. “If you don’t have to kill to eat, then why do I have to do this stupid slaying thing at all? Why do so many vampires…”

His eyes turned on hers again, burning. “Because it’s fun. Because it’s hard not to. Because it’s easier than going through the work of doubling up on your hunting to make up the difference. Because humans are the same to us as beef cows are to you.” She was still stuck back there processing words like 'fun' and 'cows' when he looked away once more. “But if that’s what you need from me to hang about, I’ll…” He shrugged almost listlessly. “It’ll be something new, anyroad.”

It took Buffy a sec to realize she was thoroughly shocked that he’d agreed to hold back. Considering everything he'd just said… /Does he really want me to…/ 

“Will you stay, Slayer?”

God. He wasn’t looking at her at all as he asked it, but he  _ sounded _ ...

The words were out before she could quite realize what she was agreeing to. “Yeah. I’ll stay.”

***

He gave her the key. Passed the padlock for the door over so she could fasten it to the inside of her room. She could lock it from the inside, now, since clearly she could protect herself well enough by this point (he’d only caught her strike to his chin because he’d been prepared for her to go off half-cocked in some way or other, after their previous interview, and because he was faster after all these sodding years than some wet-behind-the-ears fledge. Better be, or he’d already be dust). 

Of course, he was a bit concerned, still, of what might happen if she left the room at the same time that Dru might be out and about, because that might still be a bloody catastrophe, depending on his sire’s state, what the bleeding pixies might be whispering into her ears at any given moment, but he’d deal with that when it came time.

He was risking a lot, right now. Dru had mostly come to terms with the current situation, fucking disaster that it was, but that didn’t mean anything in the heat of the moment. Depending on her state of mind, upon smelling the Slayer’s delectable self Dru might all too easily attack the chit… at which point she’d either dust, considering her state of weakness, or the Slayer might slip, and end up affording Dru the meal she needed to become strong again. His sire was a wily one, after all. She hadn’t survived this long for naught, damaged or no. At which point, where would he be? Either fucking way?

The problem being, he quite honestly had no other answer to give. He couldn’t help but risk it, because the other road, the other risk, was more than he could bear. If he didn’t trust the Slayer with the keys to the kingdom—to her own freedom—he would lose her entire, and that concept wasn’t to be thought.

He needed to fetch her shoes, as well. Though, she might not wear them, come to that, now she knew of his ‘shopping’ habits. /But, then, what the fuck is she meant to do? Stop eating, is it?/ She couldn’t, so she was going to have to stop being so goddamned high and mighty about the practicalities. 

It hit him, right then, that he and the sodding Slayer were in the same bloody boat on that subject. She was going to have to go on accepting his bitty gifts; the ones as kept her alive and living in comfort. Food and toiletries and the like, even if they were ill-gotten goods, and swallow her disquiet over it… And he was going to have to begin the bloody fucking hassle of an every damned day catch-and-sodding-release programme for his meals, like a gelded goddamned half-tamed lapdog, if he wanted to keep her about and stay fed on top of that, and what the fuck mess had he gotten himself into?

/Well. First thing, before I go off the bleedin’ wagon for you, I’m gonna get my kicks./

Stepping into the DeSoto, he put the hammer down and headed up to Canoga Park. He had some frustrations to get out. /Best to do it now and have done with it./ There were a couple of medical professionals up at that hospital whose names the Slayer still moaned in her sleep, the notes of pure terror in her voice, begging all the while that they go easy on her, not throw her in the sodding ‘quiet room’, that they please not strap her down anymore, that if they could just  _ understand _ …

It haunted him, that sound. He had to do some bloody thing about it, before he went mad himself. Then, maybe, just maybe, he might be able to start leaving them to live, whether the tossers deserved it or not. /She might hear some almighty bitching about it, what with the waste, all the sodding extra effort and that, but…/

/Fuck. Will she want me to ensure Dru and the minions do the same?/ The thought hit him with the force of a sledgehammer as he merged off onto the 405 North, leaving him winded. No way could he manage all that. 

What a fucking farce this was! He was insane to even think he might win her favor! He was a sodding  _ vampire _ , not…

He was so irritated, so utterly off his game, that it took him fifteen extra minutes to work up the gall to kill and eat the doctor who’d so damaged his Slayer. 

He didn’t even get to enjoy it, he was in such a state about the business. He was too busy worrying about the all-too-likely fact that the chit would no doubt consider it some sort of crime that he’d done the tosser in. And anyroad, when it came to the rest—Dru and the minions— “She’ll just have to lump it, innit? She’s lucky enough I’m considering abstaining from the sodding kill meself! She can’t expect the rest to do it! They’re not trying to get in good with her! They’ve no reason to do it! I’m the only one mad enough for all this!”

After a moment’s speeding down the 101, though, the uncomfortable surmise hit him broadside once more. He had control of the minions. That made their actions his responsibility. So it was either see to it they also did catch-and-release, same as him, or he let them free, to go about their business. He could, after all, make them swear to it as a condition of their fealty. Granted, he’d have to police them in it…

“Or I can just stake the blighters and have done with it.” It was, in many ways, the more attractive solution. For one thing, he didn’t want word getting out about his captive Slayer. /Captive Now, there’s a laugh./

If there was anyone captive, by this point in the proceedings, it was yours truly.

Only problem with dusting the sods was, he needed the help with Dru. His focus was split. Dru had seen her way toward accepting the situation, but it didn’t mean she didn’t need looking after, when he was away—times like this, in point of fact—which meant…

Well, he had the one. The one who’d sworn to him apurpose. Maybe he could keep that one, and do in the other two. They were dead weight, anyway. /And then I can tell that one to do as I’m doing, see if he follows along. If he doesn’t, I’ll just dust the git. But I’m going to need help, if I’m going to try to get Dru to…/

“Fuck.” The monumental nature of the task before him loomed like a thousand-foot wall. Dru was his responsibility as well… but she was also his sire. She might be dependent on him, but by blood, she was his superior. She could just as easily tell him to go piss up a rope as obey any such asinine stricture. 

It was hopeless. The whole bloody thing. He should give it up now; just throw in the towel, and…

Bright, grass-green eyes appeared before his, curling into him like fists holding his heart. And it was so bloody ready to be crushed by hands tiny and tender-looking as newborn leaves, but as lethal as a sodding avalanche; first demanding, then turning impossibly guileless as they asked him one simple thing, one thing she could live with, and…

/ _ Fuck! _ /

And he was there, before her door, before he could quite realize what had happened. And he knew he must look a fright, and he wasn’t in possession of himself at all, as he stood before her, and god alone knew what she must think, and…

“A… Are you okay, Spike?” she asked as she opened the portal to take him in.

/Fuck, and now she’s noticing I’m not right. Bloody hell./ 

Except… It was the first time anyone, to his recollection, had seen right off the jump that he wasn’t right, and cared to ask, and just that realization—that she  _ did _ care, that she had a stake in his wellbeing—was enough to damn near cut his knees from under him… and he was ready, right then, to fall to them before her and profess his undying devotion. /I’m fucked, I’m utterly fucked, why am I always the sodding troubadour, ready to carry my love into oblivion for someone who can never, ever love me?/

But then her hand was on his face, and he could breathe again, and she smiled at him, and it was a little tremulous, but it was real, and he knew he could never once go back. Because that look, there in her eyes, for him?

That was worth anything.

***

So, apparently, Larry Blaisdell was gay. At least, according to Xander, so who knew how accurate that 411 was. Still, shocking, much? He was like, captain of the varsity everything.

Also, Ms. Calendar finally took Giles on a date. 

It got even better. She took Captain Tweed out to watch a  _ monster truck rally _ . Holy crap, Cordy would’ve paid to see that. (Giles watching the rally, not the truck thing itself, which sounded like just the worst. She’d gone on a few bad dates in her time, but that was pushing it. Also, who knew Ms. Calendar was so… butch?)

Anyhoo, she could’ve told the computers teacher that that wasn’t the way to go… but amazingly, Giles seemed willing to try another date with her. Which, considering their relative hotness levels, Cordy could understand. If a guy like that had the chance to score with a chick like her, who was, let’s face it, about a thousand percent out of his league, he should so jump on it, monster truck fetish or no monster truck fetish.

Before they had the chance to go on a second date, though, that guy Ethan Rayne showed up again, because why not bring back the whole evil Merlin sideshow? Except this time he came with bonus zombies or something. Melty ones, who turned into goop all over the floor after touching people—and, apparently, possessing them with some evil demon that Giles had played with back when he was in his twenties, because he was, get this, a bad-boy himself, once upon a time?

Also, for the record, and adding evidence to the whole ‘bad-boy Giles’ thing, when her Watcher finally had his showdown with this ex-buddy of his, they all got an eyeful. Giles total morphed when he saw the dude; got all threatening, and jumped right into some kind of weird alter-Giles state, where, apparently, he was some kind of, like, crazed dom or something? 

It was wild to watch him grab this guy Ethan’s hair and drag his head back, and get all tough, and stare into his eyes, and…

And for the record, who knew Giles could be so… deadly-looking?

Also, that Ethan guy looked for a sec like this was exactly what he’d come for. He looked way excited over Giles getting all grabby with him, at which point it hit Cordy, watching them. / _ Ohhh _ ./ 

It looked like Larry Blaisdell wasn’t the only one who did some extracurricular coloring outside the lines, here and there. And, yeah. Maybe after they got rid of that demon-thing out there trying to possess everyone, Giles should have a chat with Ms. Calendar about some stuff. 

Except that never happened, because the demon possessed Ms. Calendar instead. And then that creep Rayne grabbed Cordy and tried to  _ tattoo _ her so she could be the monster’s next snack, which,  _ excuse-moi? _ So not on the docket to be any demon’s Lamborghini, thank you very much! /Did anyone see how wearing that thing made Ms. Calendar look and sound all… mannish? No  _ thank _ you!/ 

Lucky for her, Angel was there to step in. Since he was technically dead, he was able to act as a temporary house for the stupid demon. His own demon had been in residence for longer or whatever, so they had a nice, ripply showdown inside him. After which, thank goodness, his personal demon cast the thing out; hopefully to die, with nothing to possess, though maybe it ended up taking over a dead cockroach or something. Cordy didn’t care, as long as it was no longer after her. 

It was really gonna suck to have to pay for a tattoo-removal. /But you know what? That’s what Watchers are for. This was his screw-up. He should shell out the cash for the fix!/

Everything seemed fine for a day or so… until Angel went missing. They were about to have a nice ‘date’ out by one of the mausoleums (a working date, but you know. It wasn’t every day that a guy absorbed a demon for you. She was starting to really feel a kind of a way about him, and it was probably time she admitted it, whether he was a little flighty or no). But then… he didn’t show. Which, alright, was annoying, but it was Angel, and maybe he’d gone to take a powder or something. 

Except he went missing the next night as well. And then on the third night, right before she started to really, seriously worry, two ‘sons of Aurelius’ or whatever they were called showed up in front of her—definitely risking getting staked, by the way—to deliver her a message.

“The Master wishes you to know, if you want your puppy back, you must come to him. He has been a bad dog, and is being held in a kennel for the Master’s pleasure. The Master says he is sure you understand.”

/Well, crap./

* * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Goodness, Dru's seer-speak is fun to write. She sees right into the heart of the matter. You just have to understand how the hell she's couching the terms of the vision.  
  
And Buffy? Not gonna end up a Stockholm girl, so no worries on that front!   
  
Also, yeah. Could in no way resist a nice "Who the heck is Angel(us)" moment from her, because man, is that ever fun when writing a Buffy who's never met him!  
  
Alrighty-o. Cya all next week, and thank you for your continued patronage!  
  



	9. Aeromancy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still trying to find time amidst holidaying with the child and such to answer y'all, so sorry. But in the meantime, in keeping with my dancing off to find new synonyms for "prophecy", here we have 'Aeromancy', aka: divination by reading atmospheric conditions. 
> 
> Aeromancy made use of cloud formations, wind currents and cosmological events such as comets to attempt to divine the past, present or future. Sub-types of this practice included: austromancy (wind divination), ceraunoscopy (observing thunder and lightning), chaomancy (aerial vision, whatever the hell that means), meteormancy (meteors and shooting stars), and nephomancy (cloud divination, which, sign me up for that job. "Yo, I saw a dragon in that cloud, we need to fort up! 'K, pay me!"). 
> 
> Variations on the word have been used throughout history, with the earliest instance being in the Bible, though the practice is thought to have been used by the ancient Babylonian priests, and, yadda. Anyway, I’d imagine trying to read the moods of a number of ruffled and powerful women, all of them either Seers or Slayers (or both), might be at least as harrowing as seeking omens in things like thunderstorms and falling meteors, LOL. 
> 
> *pats poor, harried Spike*

**Sec.9B: Aeromancy**

Spike took her ‘shopping’ for shoes… if you could call it that. He even paid for them, as a sort of impasse move, since she was with him. He looked incredibly pained to be doing so; so much so that she thought he had maybe strained something when he left the money by the till. She had no doubts that if she hadn’t been with him, he wouldn’t have even considered paying. But he’d needed her with him to ensure a good fit, so he did it. 

He was being such a good boy about it that she didn’t ask him where the money had come from. He spent enough time glaring around him during one of his smoke-breaks—which he took inside the store, by the way, ignoring her pointed looks as he puffed up a storm—looking all hunted and muttering to her that he was a damned good poker player, even though she hadn’t remotely asked for details.

She hated to admit it, but there was something weirdly invigorating about being in a store after it was closed, all cloak and dagger, and having the run of the place. She felt like her inner shoplifting self of junior high, when she had gone on a brief stint of lawbreaking with her two ‘bad’ friends as thirteen-year-olds. Though, back then it had been about stuffing Lisa Frank-themed notebooks and cheap makeup under their shirts at the nearby Super-K, to share out at school during break. Definitely not shoes. They hadn’t even graduated to trying for clothes. She thought she might’ve made it out of a mall shop once with a pair of cheap, five-dollar earrings from Claire’s before her mother had caught her and read her the riot act. End of her weeklong ‘criminal’ career, end of hanging out with Chloe and Georgia, beginning of Buffy on the straight and narrow. 

She supposed nearly every kid did that once or twice, falling to temptation, as long as they weren’t uber-religious or whatever and afraid god was going to strike them with lightning, like Chad Baines was always talking about (and had insisted they would be, at length, on every break between classes). She wondered what had happened to Chad Baines, and to Chloe and Georgia, for that matter, as she tried on her third pair of cute-but-sensible athletic shoes, shrugged at Spike, and pronounced them workable. 

“You fancy anything else, pet?” he asked, still puffing away like a dragon.

She glanced up to where he was leaning over there against a nearby Payless shelf. Look at him, trying to take her on a spree, after months of her wearing, like, paper freaking slippers or whatever. Granted, back home she had a whole closet full of shoes, and the idea of having several choices again was a sure-fire way to her heart, but… Well, this probably wasn’t exactly the time. 

They’d had a goal, tonight. “I needed workout shoes, right? Gym-type stuff.”

He shrugged. “No reason not to pick out something attractive as well, if you want.”

God, he looked tense. “Can you afford it?”

“I’ll do.” 

Well, that was bland. Pulling off the sneakers, but leaving on the little nylon ‘socks’, she stood to peruse the sandals.

Fifteen minutes later she had something picked out in a light coral, and Spike was slapping down a couple bills on the counter and escorting her out through the lock-picked door and into the warren of the back halls. They headed toward a Target that was attached to the tail-end of the mall he’d prized their way into an hour ago—Buffy was still unable to fathom how they’d managed to avoid alarms and stuff. The guy was insanely good at this kind of larceny; it was actually scary—and gave her a tug toward the haircare aisle. “Didn’t figure to choose your color for you, in case I guessed wrong. Same as the shoes, yeah?”

Startled, Buffy turned to scan the choices. At this point she barely remembered what she’d used the last time. /Was it Nutrisse or Loreal? Or, wait. Clairol? No, it wasn’t Clairol, that stuff’s too cheap… Man, and was it golden blonde or warm golden? Oh, wait! It was Revlon, wasn’t it? Crap…/

Lost, she frowned at the nine million choices on offer, and blindly grabbed at a box. “This is fine.”

“You sure?” He took it from her hand, held it up to the ends of her hair. “It’ll have faded a bit, but it doesn’t quite look a match. Though, granted, how it acted against your own shade isn’t something you can predict from these bloody things, whatever the box says…”

Buffy’s lips twitched. “You sound like a connoisseur. I’m guessing you don’t just do the peroxide thing, no matter what it looks like.”

He growled a little. “That shite will destroy your hair. I only get one head of hair a year. I need to be kind to it.” He did a little side-step and made a grab… to her surprise, for a box proclaiming itself ‘the best hot-oil treatment on the market!’ “You want one, pet? For after?”

Now he really was surprising her. “Is that one for you?”

He lifted a telling brow and waited, thin dignity spread over defensiveness. She fought down a smirk and nodded. “Yeah, might as well. My hair’s probably a disaster after the last few months.”

“Not as bad as you think, luv,” he answered in low, unexpectedly soft tones, and picked up a second box. “Are we off?” 

She was so taken aback by the whole concept of ‘salon-Spike’ that she missed the part where he didn’t leave behind any cash for the hair stuff. They were back in the car and peeling out for the docks by the time she realized they were also probably completely on camera in there as after-hours shoplifters. “Oh my  _ God _ , Spike, you just turned me into an accomplice!”

He shot her a look and guffawed as he swung them off the 405 and down into the city. “I kept you off the cameras, pet.”

She stared at him, amazed. “How the heck did you do…”

“Easy enough if you know where they are.”

She blinked at that, nonplussed. “Oh. Well. Still.”

He shook his head and swung his ancient car wide, so that the thing shimmied in protest. They merged onto Highway One. “I left cash back on any of those tills, some asshat coming in to open tomorrow morning will just pocket it. It’s not like they’re like to notice that bit of inventory’s missing and tot it up as corresponding to the cash left behind. Not for at least a week. That’s just not how stores that size work.” His words were bit off, harsh. “It’s not bloody ‘Bob’s Grocery’.”

He completely lived in another world than her. To him, what he was doing was utterly practical. She could even see why; why he felt like there was absolutely no reason to live according to human strictures. It was just… “You get why I feel guilty, don’t you?” she pressed quietly.

“Not really,” he rebutted, flat and immediate. “Place like that puts aside millions in insurance a year for losses like that; covers more than that in shite that’s broken in transit; sliced or smashed while being opened to stock the shelves, much less loss due to theft.” He shot her a fuming sort of glance. “It’s already bloody paid for, Buffy,” he ground out, frustration clear. “We’re just the method by which that loss is accounted for.”

She closed her eyes and shook her head, sighing. It was done, and she might as well use the stuff, but she couldn’t do it anymore, that was certain. “I can’t go ‘shopping’ with you anymore, Spike.”

He exhaled heavily into the moonlight, and silence fell between them for a moment. The smell of the marina struck her nostrils as they descended into the maze of surface streets.

“What about the food, pet?” he essayed finally, sounding grim. “I’m making the hell of a concession for you there. How’s that work for you?”

/Well, dang./ She’d really never considered it that way. “That’s…” She halted before anything could come out, because… was it really different? He was going out and… 

/What is he actually doing out there to get fed?/ It only now occurred to her that she wasn’t precisely sure what he had conceded to do, in practice. Would people, like, give him permission to bite them? Probably not, because they’d have to know vampires existed first to know what they were giving permission  _ for _ , so instead he’d have to, like… 

She frowned, thinking it through. /What? Make ‘em think you’re sneaking out somewhere to make out or something, and then do it, and not kill ‘em, and then…/ 

And it occurred to her only then, that because he wasn’t killing them, they were, like, witnesses or whatever; people who could later point him out of a crowd and say, ‘Him! That was the guy who assaulted me, and did that weird biting thing on me!’ Which meant Spike probably had to look for people to bite in different places every time, which sounded like a lot of work. And in the meantime, he was technically stealing his meals from their bodies, at her behest, because in her mind it was better than his killing them. But now that she thought about it, that ‘instead’ was kind of like… date rape or something, wasn’t it? Or, that was how she imagined it might feel, for someone to wake up the next morning all woozy and wonder what had happened the night before, and god, what was she asking him to  _ do _ to people? /Unless… Can you do that one thing? The thing Lothos tried to do to me, with the weird eyes, hypnotize-y deal? Can all vamps do that?/

And if he could… was that any better?

The thing was, either way, and though she hated to say it even to herself, she still thought it was better in the long run than a swath of deaths. There would be a swath of trauma, maybe, which was ew, but… You could recover from trauma. Death was pretty un-recover-y. 

Meanwhile, here he was asking her about the ethics of his stealing a few protein bars from a sporting goods store for her to eat; things that were only costing a few big businesses a few bucks… and all the sudden things were seriously slotting into relative placements for her when it came to comparative morality. 

She wondered if it was tough for him, what she was asking him to do. /As tough as it is for me to eat stolen food, drink stolen drinks, wear stolen clothes? Are we really even, with our lesser-of-two-evils lives? He can’t starve and neither can I… and I’d really rather not go naked, so…/ “How, um, is that going for you?” she asked finally, tentative. 

As if amused at her question, he scoffed so loudly and abruptly that she almost jumped. “It’s a great bloody fucking hassle,” he informed her, and swung the wheel again. They screeched half-sideways around a huge bank of warehouses and started down a narrow alley lit only by the faint, ambient light. “Tough enough for me to do; to hold back. Trying to get the minions to do it as well is near impossible. Will probably have to stake the tossers; or at least all but the one as volunteered himself into service. And Dru…” He halted, shaking his head grimly, and cut off.

Buffy was exceedingly taken aback by this unexpected exegesis. It honestly hadn’t occurred to her to consider what the other vampires he had in his care, or under his aegis, or whatever you wanted to call it, were doing, but he apparently had, and had decided that their agreement extended to every other vampire under his control. Which… she supposed made sense from the standpoint of making her feel a lot better about living among them. For one, it saved her having to eventually stake them and everything. However… she hadn’t asked him to do that. Their conversation had only been between them. “Spike, I… I had no idea you were… I mean, I didn’t ask… I didn’t even think…” It was monumental enough that he was trying to change how  _ he _ operated, after over a hundred years of living a certain way. That he was trying to force others to do it was… /Just, wow./

He shot her a brief, fulminating look that burned so bright she caught despite the shadows striping their way through the car in the night. “Slayer, it’s my nest. It’s my responsibility. How could you  _ not _ think I’d take it that way?”

“Your…  _ nest?”  _ She thought she’d heard Merrick use that term before—maybe in one of his many rapid-fire lessons about vampires. Maybe when trying to educate her about Lothos—but it was tough to remember considering the sheer volume of information her Watcher had tried to pump into her over the course of less than a week, over eight months ago, and with a vast, shimmering, foggy wall of drugs between her and whatever had managed to make it into her long-term memory. “I don’t…” She struggled with verbiage that would neither earn her a stunned, slightly mocking but mostly pitying look, nor make her sound like a complete infant. “Can you, maybe, uh… give me a little more information on how that works? I think I’ve only heard that term, like, once, and it went by really fast.”

“Oh, hell,” Spike muttered, and nodded into the darkness. “Right, then.” He put the car into park in front of a building she thought she vaguely recognized as ‘their’ warehouse, exhaled in a long gust, tugged out a silvery lighter, and began to flip it open and closed with his thumb, like a metronome. “So. It goes like this. A city has a Master; a vampire who’s the strongest and oldest around. Beneath him—or her; doesn’t matter, really. What matters is age and strength—lie first the sires of the nests below him who are of his direct line, ranked from eldest first, and then below those, the sires of nests who have sworn fealty to him, by blood, but aren’t related to him. Each of those nest-sires has vamps ranked beneath them, in a hierarchy that goes from eldest to youngest, and from most closely-related down to the most miserable minion…”

Buffy was already lost. “Okay, you’ve used that word a lot. ‘Minion’. What’s… I mean…”

Spike tossed the lighter up and down in his palm, so that it glittered in the low light from a far-off lamp down on the docks. It gleamed bright enough that it caught Buffy’s gaze; distracted her so that she couldn’t pull her eyes away from it. “A minion is technically any vamp who owes loyalty by a blood-oath,” he answered, his tones distant. “That could mean any vamp ranked beneath any other—so, I’m Dru’s minion, as I owe her my allegiance, being her childe—but that goes without sayin’, when you’re talkin’ about someone in your own bloodline.” 

He made a strange face, then. “The fealty’s not necessary in those circumstances. No oaths needed, though some high mucky-muck asshats like my own great-grandsire require ‘em anyway, because he’s a big one for ritual. But…”

“Why isn’t the oath needed, if it’s someone in your own bloodline?” Buffy found all this fascinating.

He ceased tossing the lighter, half-turning toward her in the gloom. “Because our elders can command us,” he informed her, sounding blown away that she didn’t know such a simple truth. “We’re bound to obey. The demons in us belong to a lineage; they share the same blood. Literally, the exact same blood. It’s given to us when we’re made, and our elders can use that blood to control us if we try to mutiny.” He made a frustrated face. “One of the best reasons I know to stay the bloody hell away from asshats like my great grandsire, or Angelus, who was my nest-sire when I was a fledge. Bein’ controlled like that is necessary when you’re a brainless infant, but after…”

“Oh.” She didn’t think she’d want a parent to be able to control her in that way, either. “Ew.”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “Anyroad, because of that built-in allegiance, mostly when one speaks of minions, one’s talkin’ about vamps not of your bloodline, who’ve had to swear fealty in a blood ritual that then requires ‘em to behave as if they were a part of your bloodline, even though they aren’t.” His eyes came back to meet hers. “A sort of way to shoehorn the blood-magicks so that a nest can secure the loyalty of all the local vamps, so that you don’t have a load of rogues running about causing you trouble, yeah?”

Buffy nodded, whirling and feeling a little blown away by Spike’s chill discourse. There was so  _ much _ that went into all this vamp stuff; so much more than just, ‘Vamp bad, vamp dust’. “So, uh, there’re a jillion vamps in town, and if a leader… Um, I mean, a ‘master’ wants to keep them behaving so trouble’s at a minimum, he forces them all to swear these minion oaths…”

“Yeah. In that way, all the smaller nests sort of come together to make up the larger one; the one that exists territory-wide. The stronger the Master, the more territory he holds. And by it, every vamp in a city knows his or her relative place in the power structure.” A line appeared between his brows, as if he were thinking hard, trying to parse what to tell her, and how. “There’re all these minute power-gradients between, as well. For instance, a bonded nest-sire and his childe—minions, yeah?—might be older than the head of a nest who is the childe of the city’s Master. For instance, the sire who’s in the bloodline might be, oh, five years younger; but that sire and her childe would likely rank a bit higher just because of proximity of relationship to the Master.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Lot of little loopholes like that. And as a vamp you have to be able to read all these subtle power differentials, by smell and feel and the like, and treat everyone accordingly, or someone will dust you for behaving inappropriately, or insulting them or what-have-you.”

Buffy was amazed by this last. “Really? For not, what? Bowing to the right person first, or something?”

His lips twitched. “Not exactly, but something like.” He shoved the lighter into his inside breast pocket, sounding certain, now. “Especially if you’re aligned to no one; if you’ve sworn no oaths and thus have no protection. Which is why if you’re gonna stay awhile, you’d rather swear a minion bond and be lowest vamp in the rankings, than hang about around the edges and be free of it all.” He made a weird face. “That, and it’s dicey hunting—or trying to get food otherwise, like those tossers who buy theirs from the back of the soddin’ hospital, like nancies—in someone’s territory when you’re not a part of a nest. Those as are part of the hierarchy would as soon starve you as look at you if you’re an encroacher. A drain on resources, you are, if you’re not a benefit to the family.”

It was so much information that Buffy couldn’t remotely digest it. “Vampires buy blood from hospitals?”

Spike’s lip curled visibly in the gloaming. “Some do. If they’ve a physical problem of some sort. Or are lazy. Or can’t hunt. Or…”

Buffy interrupted the growing harangue. /Opinions, much?/ “Okaaaay. And, what, uh, happens if you, like, break one of the Master’s rules, or…”

“You’re dust,” Spike answered, prompt and bleak. “Or, he tortures you and then you’re dust. Same difference, in the end. The Master is the law in town.”

/Oh, wow./ “That sounds… really medieval,” she ventured finally, after a long moment.

He turned a little in the seat to eye her frankly. “We’re old, yeah?” he pointed out. “Old rules.” And he swung away from her to push the creaking car door open, exited into the night, leaving her behind to chew on a lot of food for thought.

Spike was from a world where there were only two laws. Survive at all costs, and avoid pissing off anyone who was older and stronger than you were. That was it. There were no other rules. It was crazy to think about, but with something that was as strong and scary as a vampire, she supposed she got it. They had nothing else to fear but other, older vampires, and maybe occasionally some other demons, if there were stronger ones around. Spike hadn’t mentioned any of those other demons while doing his whole vampire-relations exposition, but he had previously informed her they existed. Which was kind of a hole in the story, since now she wasn’t sure whether the vampire hierarchy had anything to do with the other demons’ politics. 

/Wait, if vamps fear only age and strength…/ Probably because, for the most part, strength came with age, with vamps, to judge by Lothos. Merrick had told her that much, when explaining the previous Master of Los Angeles to her. Which, by the way, Spike? Had just explained to her in far greater detail than Merrick had how Lothos had been able to bring half the vamps in LA to fight her like that. Though, to be fair, she had been way overwhelmed when Merrick had tried to teach her, and also kind of not willing to listen yet. She had barely taken him seriously till it was too late, and had bled a lot of 411 due to information overload. Merrick had probably tried to tell her all that, and she’d just failed to retain any of it.

If that whole strength-age relationship were true, though, then why would vampires fear  _ her? _ She was never going to be all that old. She was a teenager with a total expiration date; at least, if she kept fighting vampires and whatever. So what…

“Hey, Spike?” she began, trotting up close behind him. 

“Yeah?” he asked without turning. His strides did, though, shorten a little, in deference to her query. 

She hesitated. “Am I as strong as a vampire?”

A short silence, and then he was swinging back into his long strides, necessitating her nearly jogging to catch up and match his loose rhythm. And when he spoke, his answer was clipped, something tight and telling beneath the words. “Stronger.”

/Oh.  _ Oh _ ./

So, it didn’t matter that she was way young, compared to a vampire. Apparently she had somehow been awarded that whole super-strength thing, even though she could never compare to them, age-wise. Which was kind of cheating, or at least probably from their point of view, but she’d take it, if it kept her alive. And, it explained why Lothos had come after her. Why Spike had been, in the end, drawn to fight her.

To vampires, irrespective of age, strength was a thing to either obey or destroy. A thing to be respected. They feared only elder vampires… /And, I guess… me./ 

And Spike, here, who didn’t want to fear anything, had turned that which he feared into the thing which made him feel alive again.

She had seen him stand at the edge of the door to the warehouse, just waiting for the sun to come off the door. Seen him dash out, his leather coat over his head and trailing smoke, to jog nonchalantly to his car. He smoked cigarettes, like he couldn’t start on fire. He seemed unimpressed with all these things that could dust him… 

/And he came looking for me./

For the very first time, Buffy wondered, in the absence of Lothos, who was the oldest vampire in Los Angeles.

And, watching Spike’s profile in the chilly corridor, she wondered.

***

“I don’t care what you think, Giles! I’m going to rescue him!”

The stupid glasses came off. Her Watcher went all stutter-y. “Look. Cordelia… The fact of the matter is, he is a vampire, and their relation. No doubt he will be able to free himself in time. And, aside from that, this is very clearly an attempt to get you back down to that submerged church, where the Master will no doubt attempt to use your blood, yet again, in order to escape from his prison…”

Cordy cut him off with a sharp slice of her hand. Didn’t he get that this was her fault? “Look, I’m not dumb, okay! I know it’s probably a trap…”

“Wait; back up. What kind of a trap?” Xander was lost, and Cordy so did not have the time to bring him up to date.

Luckily, she had a Giles. Her Watcher had long since given up trying to keep her Scooby-Doo group in the dark. “The last time Cordelia was meant to go down there to close with the Master, it turned out to be a trap in which, should she have gone, the Master would have drained her and used the energy her blood gave him to escape from his energetic prison and come to the surface to turn this… mystical convergence, this Boca del Infierno…”

“This what?”

“Hellmouth,” Willow translated shortly, finger on an open book and eyes staring at Giles in amazement.

“…Into his private amusement park.”

“Oh, man. So, like, Cordy’s blood is some kind of vamp power-up for this Master dude?”

Cordy had had enough. “That was only because it was the right time. There was some sort of magickal alignment thingamajig. Who knows if there’s another one right now! Aren’t they, like, once every kajillion years?”

Giles caught her eye, kindly and yet firm. “We have no idea if there might be another, my dear. There has to be a reason that he is attempting with such zeal to get you down to where he is. Perhaps he has found a ritual which will make use of the potency of your blood to free himself, regardless of the dates involved. Either way, he has realized that capturing his scion is precisely the way in which he will convince you to…”

Cordy cut him off. “And he’d be right. Angel doesn’t deserve whatever they’ll do to him to get me down there. He’s helped me since this started. He definitely deserves a rescue, after all he’s done!”

“Cordelia…”   
  
She whirled on her Watcher. “Tell me he doesn’t! Say it to my face.”

Giles fell silent.

“Alright, then.” She spun to face the two dorks who were her only remaining backups. “You two have twenty minutes to find me something amazing that’ll get me in and out without them smelling me or whatever. I’m gone, after that.”

Xander just stared. Willow, though, nodded. “We’ll see what we can find.  _ Won’t _ we, Xander.”

“Huh? Oh. Right.”

They could’ve used Ms. Calendar. She probably would’ve had a spell or something that could’ve helped, but she was still sore at Giles for the whole ‘let her get possessed’ thing, so she was all ‘making herself scarce’ chick lately. Which, unfortunately, left her out of things.

Still, the other two came through. Forty minutes later, armed only with a special sword she’d found in a crypt in Shady Rest along the way, Cordy descended toward Heinrich Nest’s nest, with rescue on her mind.

***

Spike feinted toward the girl. She caught it this time, ignored the false blow to duck below the true threat coming from his right; spun, caught him with a sizzling kick to his lower back that had him dancing away and cursing, and Christ, she was getting good! 

It was thrilling. He was coming to enjoy these bouts far too much; lost in the smell-taste-feel of her, lost in the moments, the satisfaction of every strike she got in on him, even more than the few he managed, by dint of speed alone, to get in on her as she darted round him like some sort of glimmering, gossamer dragonfly. The way she rammed into him with the speed of a tiny, vicious dreadnought, damn near taking him out sometimes with the new precision of her shots, the heady power behind her blows.

She was magnificent, a wonder, and he was rapt with appreciation of her gifts.

He was such a fucking ponce, but he knew it, now. Even if he hadn’t realized what it was he was feeling, he would enjoy her too much, by now, to ever want this to end. He would’ve kept pushing back that final fight, just to keep having this. To have more of it, without end. 

To have it forever. /Christ, I’m such a fucking nit./ But he couldn’t help himself.

She had ensorcelled him.

Yesterday, she had made to re-do her hair. He had smelt the chemicals through the door as she’d opened up the bottles to set to mixing them, and like a fucking wally, he’d poked his head through the door and asked if she wanted a hand. You know, being as how he could see the back better than she could, and he could tell for her if she’d missed any spots. 

Beguiling as ever, she had only looked at him artlessly for a moment, as if merely surprised and gratified by the offer, then shrugged and said, “Okay. I guess if you want to.”

Fuck him all to hell, he did want to.

The business had ended not just in him touching up for her the spots she’d inadvertently skipped over, but in his rinsing the shit out, the godawful fumes rising round to choke him till he’d had to hold his breath just as he did whenever he did this for himself, while the cloud of it rose about them. He’d instructed her to relax, lean her head back over the still-functional sink so that he could run the cupfuls of water over her head, again and again. The rinsing took bloody forever, while she tormented him with her eyes-shut pleasure in the simple task. So, of course, he helped with it again, once she’d shampoo’d the shit off; and a third time, once she’d applied the smelly little bottle of concentrated conditioner, because around her he appeared to have the self-control of a gnat.

It had been a fight, down to the very depths of his being, not to run his fingers through her hair; to drag it out, make a great production of it. He thought she’d stilled any number of times while he’d done the job, as well. He had, in fact, caught her staring at him a few times during, her expression confused, and oh, fuck, what the fuck was he  _ doing? _

She’d smelt of the stuff for two days, after, the sharp, acidic pall wafting around her with every step, to stand between him and her own attractive, girlish odors. And yet, even that hadn’t been enough to make him want to stay away. 

Christ, he was fucked. He was the stupidest vampire ever in the history of the species… and he was utterly and completely fucked.

***

It was probably the most decadent feeling in the entire universe, feeling him running his fingers through her hair. The wild contrast of the warm water cascading over her head, running down her scalp in little rivulets, while his cool fingers parted her locks to allow each strand access to the cleansing flow. His hands slowly warming to the temperature of flesh, of water, while her eyes, closed more against the feel of it than against the invasion of stray chemicals, made it even tougher to deal with the startling intrusion of tentative-yet-sure touches, of the shocking, tingling certitude of his presence running up and down her body like she’d been submerged in Coca Cola or something. 

He made her vibrate; every part of her, and it made her want—need—to jump to her feet, to fight, to dance, to…  _ Something _ . And yet, the way he was touching her just made her want to stay still forever; just beg him to keep doing it, never stop, and what was  _ happening? _

A little while later, she left the room. After all, she had her own key, now. She could leave any time she wanted, right? 

She hated to admit it, even to herself, but she wanted—no, needed—to watch him. To figure him out. 

He just… He didn’t make any sense to her at all, and she needed to get her bearings about him if she was going to… To understand what was going on. That was all. She needed to understand what the heck was going on.

She somehow didn’t expect what she saw when she came out. 

He was in the big main area of the warehouse, which was decked out with weird, black roses. Or, well, dark purple, but still. She exited the chill corridor, following the ‘powerful vampire’ vibe… and saw them. Nearly retreated; and not because there was more than one, but because of what they were doing.

They swooped across the room, looking like a couple of dark birds in flight. He was holding the slight, tall, sinful-looking vampiress against himself like she was precious to him. They made a hedonistic pairing as they waltzed around the echoing space; Spike tender and attentive, the other vampire—for clearly she was that, with her pale features and her unearthly movements—watching him with a bizarre, waiting expression. 

There was a strange, familiar sensuality about them; between him and the tall, lithe, classically beautiful, seductive creature in his arms. Obviously this was his sire; the woman he’d been with for over a hundred years. It was also clear that they were… Well. There was this… weirdly animal thing about them. The girl vampire had this strange…  _ ness _ about her. And it was this quality, this something about her which changed the second Buffy stopped by. She lifted a finger, made a cut on Spike’s cheek with her nail, drew the blood from it into her mouth, which, ugh, and then growled at him and dug her nails into his neck. 

The instant she did so, Spike pressed their hips together, his expression illegible, and, okay, ugh… but Buffy couldn’t help but watch raptly, because even if it was gross and bizarre, there was clearly an unashamed sexuality between them that was oddly riveting, and…

Two heads turned her way very suddenly, the bright and the dark. And now they were staring at her, and oh, crap, they had sensed her. Spike had told her that vampires could sense Slayers; a self-preservation thing, because she was their only natural predator or whatever, and she was totally interrupting their private moment, and… 

Turning away, Buffy fled back toward her room, feeling nauseous… and strangely angry. For some reason, she didn’t think it was because of the creepy thing with the… the scratchy blood-deal. Or, not all because of it. That Spike seemed to like that kind of thing was… disappointing, sure, but he was a vampire. She supposed that weirdness made sense. It was just…

His girlfriend seemed like kind of a ho. But, also, she was way… adult. Like, x-rated adult. And they had  _ such _ a long-term relationship, even though Spike had implied that he was faithful even when she wasn’t, and... /I guess that means he likes that kind of thing, or they wouldn’t still be together./

Anyway, obviously he liked… He had… 

Buffy wasn’t sure why it bothered her so much, though. Like, it wasn’t her problem who Spike banged. She wasn’t even sure why she should have an opinion on his girlfriend or his relationship. After all, she was just a guest here. Someday she’d leave. /I guess after we have our big fight or whatever./ She would return to what remained of her life, and he’d go on his merry way with his slinky, ho-bag girlfriend. So, then, what did it matter that he was into tall, willowy brunettes who were all overt sexuality and unleavened, triple-x challenge, and smoldering promise, and unmatchable, Morticia Addams-style class, and… 

And she really wanted to stake Morticia out there. And why was she feeling such overwhelming wrath against a vampire she’d never talked to, never met, never… 

Why had seeing Spike with his sire made her so enraged?

/Probably you’re just mad for his sake, because he’s getting played, and he deserves better. He  _ way _ does, and, like, if he’s gonna be so good to her, she should definitely live up to what he offers! He’s such a great guy, even as a vampire! I’ve met so many douches who are human and probably deserve to be cheated on, but not… Like…/

It hit her, way belatedly, and with the weight of a Mack truck, and oh, crap, she was an idiot. /What the hell are you  _ thinking?  _ Do you, like, have a  _ crush _ on him?/

/Okay, first of all, bad idea, if you do. A, he’s a vampire, no matter how nice he is to you, and you’re a Slayer. Which, like, not that you’re actually doing that right now, but isn’t that against the rules or something? And, B, he’s in this long-term, committed relationship. Like, way long-term. It doesn’t get more long-term than that! C, he’s also, like, a hundred and fifty years old or something, which, lame. D, no way you could ever match up to what he has with his skanky crack-ho girlfriend. They probably do…/

Her mind shuddered away from the things Spike probably did with his weirdo sire-partner-person.

She needed to get this out of her head, stat. Definitely before he came back here for their next sparring thing. /He’s only being nice to you because he wants to fight you. He doesn’t remotely think of you that way, so get over yourself! You’re only even crushing on him because you’re, like, stuck here, and he’s being nice and…/

Well, to be fair, he was also worryingly hot. Not that she had been super focused on that, underneath the outdated clothes and stuff, but he had those ridiculous eyes, and those cheekbones were to die for, and he was strong, which was hot when they fought. And he had the low, rumbly voice thing… /And let’s not forget the accent, which,  _ guh _ …/ 

But she needed to get  _ over _ it.

/God, how long have I been crushing on him, though?/ Long enough, obviously, that it had been a massive disappointment when she’d found out what he’d been eating. /There’s obviously a reason you never wanted to ask, you dope./ 

She spent all of the allotted time till their next face-off whirling, beating herself up… and wondering how to get out of this incredibly, stupidly bad situation.

***

Cordy couldn’t get anywhere near where they were keeping Angel without getting too close to where they were waiting to ambush her and bring her to the Master. Which was kind of counter-intuitive if you were wanting to avoid the whole ‘trap’ thing. Which she did, since it would be missing the point to get captured herself. /Yeah, like I came down here to end up in a cell next to him, instead of getting him out of there./

Man, the Master had a lot of minions running around these days. What, was he having his vamps make ‘em every night anymore? She’d noticed a serious uptick in sirings, had been working overtime to try to keep ‘em under wraps, but she hadn’t thought she’d missed this many of the jerks.

She returned to the library, briefly stymied, and made her report. 

Giles was, unfortunately, less-than-useful. “It sounds as if you’re at a stalemate. If you cannot get close enough to free him without risking yourself, then perhaps you will have to let him go…”

“That is so not an option.”

“But you simply cannot risk…”

Cordelia abruptly had enough of his dithering. “Look. Let’s get one thing straight. I’m the Slayer. You just  _ watch _ . You write stuff down in your big dumb books about what Slayers  _ do _ … but I’m the one who does the doing, okay? Until I see you out there with me in the field, you don’t get a say!” Didn’t he  _ get _ that? “And Angel, whatever else he might do wrong, was out there _with_ me, unlike _some_ people…”

“But… You’re functioning under a fundamental misunderstanding. Though I’m meant to know how to defend myself against the forces of darkness if it becomes quite necessary, my job is, in fact to…”

/Oh,  _ hell _ no./ “He’s been _out there_ with me. You haven’t; and I’ll be _damned_ if I’ll leave him to be  _ tortured _ by his family because he took my part…” 

“Cordelia!” Giles was shocked. 

/Shocked, I tell you. Which, wow. ‘You can’t handle the truth’, much?/ 

She didn’t let him get on a roll. “They captured him because he was helping  _ me _ , so forgive me if I’m not jazzed to leave him in their hands, you get me?” She turned her back on him to focus on the other two of her team. “You guys got anything new?”

“Uh…” Xander began, and was immediately overruled by Willow. 

“What we really need is someone who can do magicks-stuff.” For a former nerd, the girl sounded way on top of things, and seriously confident when it came to this stuff, which… Fine. If you had a niche… Run with it, right? “I mean, if we could make you invisible or something…”

Cordelia snapped her fingers, a lightbulb going off over her head. “Willow, you’re a genius.” Pivoting on her heel, she marched off through the double doors, and down the hall toward the computer lab. She needed to talk to Ms. Calendar.

***

Spike pushed the door open and gestured her into the workout room.

The Slayer preceded him in wordlessly, acting as oddly as she had been since they’d left her room.

The chit had been acting weird ever since she’d come out and spied him and Dru dancing the other day. She’d gone from warm and welcoming to terse and tense. It was quite thoroughly baffling, and it made him wonder why she was all of a sudden putting up fences between them. /What the bloody hell is wrong, now?/ 

He had neither the time nor the patience to deal with yet another fucking catastrophe in the offing. For one, he had two chits on whom he must dance attendance, these days, which was well beyond too much for any one man. For another, there was managing the sodding minions, who were getting unruly, fractious, tough to keep on track. He’d already settled in his mind that he’d have to dust the one. It only needed doing, by this point. /Probably best to get it over after this bout with the Slayer./

/Hmm…/ Maybe he ought to let her do it? 

Might settle her nerves. Though, granted, it might lower nest morale if he let her be executioner. In the end, he had to be seen as the final law in the place, if he was to keep their loyalty, so that was likely out.

Maybe he’d take her out hunting, instead, to sharpen her up. It was a dicey prospect, considering she might as soon turn on him, in the heat of the moment… But, then, he knew her moves, could read every line of her body by this point. He could keep himself intact, if she forgot herself. And in the meantime, it might do her good to get in a kill or two.

/Yeah. Maybe that’d help./

Of course, that was the Slayer put to rights. He still had Dru to manage. 

None of this was fair to his sire. He had to figure some other way to get her set right, as well. /Maybe there’s another way, aside from Slayer blood, to heal her?/ It was tough to imagine any other thing being that potent, but maybe if they found the right grimoire… It’d be a ruddy great hassle, seeking for another cure, but it wasn’t as if he could ask the Slayer for a donation. /Would be the hell of a lot to ask, even with me bein’ an unrepentant killer on hiatus. She’d think I was asking it in exchange for my bringing her out of that bleedin’ hellhole. Which… Fuck. I wouldn’t ask anything for that!/

The thing was, if he didn’t do something to heal Dru, eventually she would lose patience, get to the breaking point, come after Buffy just out of sod all other options. Everything right now just depended on which vision was predominant, and how resentful his sire was feeling in any given moment about what was being asked of her by the pixies. She clearly knew she could be well and strong by now if only she supped of the Slayer. She wasn’t bloody stupid. Moreover, she knew that all that stood in her way on that front was her own childe. /Rum go, that./

He couldn’t blame Dru in the slightest if she lost it and went after the chit sometime soon, considering they both had the run of the place these days. /Fuck, what am I thinking, risking everything just to let the girl prance about the nest like she owns it? I’m just teasing Dru, is what it is…/

A blow rocked his head back. He blinked as he resurfaced.

“You’re not paying attention.” The Slayer’s pronouncement was blunt; almost harsh.

“Sorry,” he muttered, and wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. “Have a lot on my mind.”

“You always have a lot on your mind. Maybe you should go think somewhere else, come back later.”

He blinked the chit into focus, amazed at the snark. “Well, now. Someone’s grown her own pair of fangs since yesterday.”

“I’m just irritated. If you didn’t come to fight, why are you here?”

He supposed she had a point. If he’d come to fight and she was off woolgathering, he’d be brassed off too. “Right. Good point. From here on out, you have my all.”

“Good.”

They got into it, with no more time spent on idle fancy, for his part, for the remainder of the workout. She was far more aggressive than she had been yesterday; almost ferocious. It seemed as if she were trying to tear him to bits. Finally, gasping, they separated… and he found himself distracted by the very bright, angry spots that were her eyes, in the low light. “You know, your name matches your eyes, Summers,” he opined as he straightened.

He blinked in surprise when she stared at him, then spat, “Don’t say things like that to me. I’m here to fight, so either we fight, or I’m working out, okay? But stop being so nice to me.”

Well, fuck. What had he done to brass her off? It seemed as if it was more than the inattention of earlier. “I do something in particular to get your dander up, Slayer?”

She jerked her head in negation, turned away, and afforded him a view of her retreat, vibrating with pique, as she went to work one of the heavy bags. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

/Well, alright, then./ “I’ll just give you some space, then, is it?”

“Whatever.”

He shot her back a suspicious look—she had never been all that callous or dismissive, something was clearly up—but nodded firmly and retreated to close the door behind him. 

Whatever the bloody hell had set her off, she clearly needed the time to pound it out without him present.

Anyroad, he had a minion to dust.

* * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
HEE!  
Figure out those wind-currents, Spike m'lad!


	10. Augury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I had to go on with the whole 'types of divination bit' for one more round: 
> 
> Augury is the practice from ancient Roman religion of interpreting omens from the observed behavior of birds. When the individual, known as the augur, interpreted these signs, it was referred to as "taking the auspices". 'Auspices', as Spike could no doubt tell us, is from the Latin auspicium and auspex, and literally means "one who looks at birds." Depending upon the birds, the auspices from the Gods could be favorable or unfavorable (auspicious or inauspicious; isn't that neat?). Sometimes politically motivated augurs would fabricate unfavorable auspices in order to delay certain state functions, such as elections. (Cue me not making snarky commentary about elections right now.) 
> 
> This type of omen-reading was already a millennium old in the time of Classical Greece. In the fourteenth-century BC the practice was familiar to the king of Alasia in Cyprus, who needed an 'eagle diviner' to be sent from Egypt. In point of fact, Spike could also no doubt inform us that Agamemnon of The Iliad had a bird-diviner in his court, by name Calchas. 
> 
> This practice was later, however, replaced by sacrifice-divination through inspection of the sacrificial victim's liver / sheep's guts (haruspices). Probably easier to read guts on the ground than birds flying about on a whim above your head, and hoping they did what you wanted them to do. I’d imagine reading guts would be a lot like reading tea-leaves; up to interpretation. Birds (and ‘birds’) can just up and leave, if they want to.

**Sec.10B: Augury**

She was going to have to talk to him about it. She could see that now. He didn’t deserve the way she was treating him, and obviously he was completely thrown right now. Because he was a dumb guy, and had no idea what she was thinking. 

Of course, she was going to have to do it while simultaneously talking around the part where she had a crush on him, because humiliating, much? She could never let him know that, and live through his pity and stuff. But she could definitely figure out a way to fix this in the meantime; at least until she found a way to get out of this incredibly stupid situation. 

She had to fix it. It wasn’t like she had anywhere else to go. /I mean, it’s not like I can go home, right?/

It was the first time she had really permitted herself to consider it, and at the thought, a wave of homesickness spilled over into her heart, filling her from head to toe. It had taken allowing herself to even remotely consider the possibility, a thing she couldn’t imagine before now. But then, she’d had no reason to think she’d need to face the prospect before this moment. And now, here she was, letting herself yearn for the bygone days when she’d had a home, and parents who…

The whole thing was dumb, since there was no way. If she left, if she tried to go to them, her mother and father would no doubt take one look at her and demand she go back to the hospital. Wasn’t there some kind of legal reason she had to be there, or something? And, back she’d go. 

And, on top of that… Like, she was now almost a year behind in school, which… /Oh, God, I’m a held-back kid, now!/ What a thought! She was one of those losers who wouldn’t graduate till nineteen, or would end up with a GED and never go to college. Not even on a cheerleading scholarship. And, of course, everyone would assume it was because she was an idiot, not because something awful happened in her life, because no one ever did when you were held back, and god, oh god…

A visual memory hazed back into place; decorations she’d seen in the mall during her vampire-chaperoned shopping trip. There had been harvest-y, turkey-themed ads posted in the Payless. Which meant they were into November (OMG, _November!)_. Which meant it was getting close to Thanksgiving by now… and all of a sudden, all she could think of was family, and holiday closeness. And after Thanksgiving would be Christmas, and oh, god, she had never, not once, spent the holidays away from her parents, and what the heck was her life turning into?

And, on top of that, Spike had just, like, taken her out of the hospital, hadn’t he? Just sort of… carried her off. Did her parents even know she was alive? Were they freaking out? Why had that thought never occurred to her before now? 

/They’re probably so stinking worried… Meanwhile, here I am, all spazzing about my stupid crush on a hundred-year-old dude who drinks blood…/

“So, uh… What’s the deal with Drusilla?” she forced herself to ask, the next time he came by to invite her out for some spar-y goodness. “Like, you made it sound like she’s sick or something…”

Spike frowned at nothing as they marched side-by-side down the long, mildew-y hallway. “We got attacked by a mob in Prague. They messed her up. She’s weak. That’s the long and the short of it. She needs… a specific kind of blood to be healed.”

/Alright-y, then./ “Like… what kind of blood?”

Apparently she’d hit upon a sore spot, because he gave the impression of someone who’d forgotten how to breathe for about five minutes. She could swear he didn’t inhale all the way till they got to the dojo door. When he finally did answer, it was to shrug. “Doesn’t matter, pet. She’s unlikely to get what she needs anytime soon.”

Buffy frowned at him, feeling as if she was missing a chunk out of a conversation that was happening somewhere over her head. “I feel like you’re lying,” she accused finally, baldly. “Or, hiding something from me.”

“I am,” he answered, as frankly, and pushed the door open. “But that’s a conversation for another time.”

/Oh, wow./

***

“You seem a bit off your game, Slayer.” /As well she might be, since you’ve just informed her that you’re lying to her face, you useless sack of shite…/

She dropped her hands. “Yeah… I guess I’m kinda homesick. It’s getting close to the holidays, and… y’know. It makes me wonder how my parents are doing.” She shrugged. “I mean, not that I want ‘em to throw me back into the hospital, but I still wonder.” Her face crumpled slightly, fought to regain poise. “I guess I miss ‘em.”

Christ, she looked so young. So troubled. 

/Fuck./ “You want me to take you home, pet?” The words were out before he could censor them, and what the bloody hell was he thinking?

She shrugged again, as if shaking the question off of her shoulders. “I’m not sure what’s the right thing to do. I mean, I’m gonna miss them no matter what, but I kinda wanna stay, too. I feel safe here. I don’t know what they’ll do if I go home, so…”

/Oh, hell./ 

He had to tell her. Dru was getting to be more than he could handle. She was rebelling against his attempts to get her to catch and release, for one (which, all things being equal, he understood. It was a lot to ask of her). He was down to one minion, having had to dust the other two for infractions against his new edicts. Which in turn meant that keeping Dru under wraps, with the Slayer about, was nigh impossible anymore. Not to mention, she was acting fractious and odd, as if something was bothering her on multiple levels. Something was bloody well setting her off, and she’d taken to muttering once more about blood, and him keeping her weak, and going off on sodding tangents about the pixies, and whether she wanted to do what they told her, and how Miss Edith was getting angry and the like. 

Things were getting to the breaking point. And as to keeping the Slayer here…

/You’re only keeping her about anymore because you want her here. Because you enjoy her presence, and you can’t feature the thought of her gone. No other reason. You’ll never feed her to Dru, and that final fight? It won’t ever come. There’ll never be a final anything. You want it to go on forever; which it can’t. Not so long as Dru’s here needing to be made whole. So you’ve got to choose, me lad. Do you want her to stay alive, and eventually stake Dru for trying to nosh on her, or do you want Dru to eat her, and end in finding her dead sometime, while stalking about the corridors?/

That was the stark reality of it. /If you love something, set it free, and all that rot./ She was a beautiful bird, somehow fallen into his life because of a broken wing. Not her fault he had a soft spot for mental cases, but her break had more or less healed. He needed to open the window and let her go; let her wing back to her natural habitat, before she was so conditioned to captivity that she forgot how to be what she was. She was a peregrine, being held in a mews by a jumped-up kestrel. /Stop being a prat and set her free, before something worse happens./ 

He had to warn her. Tell her the truth of why he had originally brought her into his domain. And when he did, she would leave him. It would all fall apart… but it would be for the best. She’d run; home to her family, who would see to it she remained out of the bleedin’ asylum, or he’d bite the blighters… and she’d have a long, happy life, free of his troubles. He’d find another way to set Dru aright, and they’d go on just as they ever had…

He wished he didn’t feel so despondent at the thought of it.

The words felt like lead weights, falling from his lips. “You should go home, then, Slayer. To your family. You’re put right, now… and…” No turning back, once he’d admitted it. “You ought to know that, though I’d never do it now, the main reason I brought you here at the start was because I’d intended to feed you to Dru, to get her well again. Because it’s Slayer blood has the power to heal a damaged vampire. And since I bloody well doubt you’d give it to her out of the kindness of your heart, it’s probably about time you toddled on your merry way.” 

He was left with her staring at him as if he’d lost his bleeding mind. Fair enough, he supposed.

After a protracted moment, “You were… You were gonna…”

“Was the plan, yeah. At first.” Christ, she was definitely going to run. And, hell; it was meet that she did.

He had to let her go. It was the best thing for all of them. It was right, and proper, and why did he feel so utterly gutted at the very thought? She’d be free, and happy, and he’d be…

Well, he’d be fucking lost, but that was neither here nor there. 

She was looking on him now as if seeking out something in his face; a desperate sort of expression. Her voice, too, sounded strained. “But you’re not planning it anymore, right? Like, the whole letting me out to have the run of the place wasn’t some big, hidden plan to let her…”

He sighed and looked away, unable to take the stunned pleading in her eyes. “Kept you locked up safe long as I could, but you’re well able to defend yourself now. Have to keep her away from you these days, so she doesn’t attack you and get herself dead, yeah?” He couldn’t see her. Couldn’t cope with the betrayal that had no doubt etched itself all over her perfect features. “Anyroad, you’re free to go. My mess to deal with…”

“Why me?” she demanded, sounding more confused than furious. “I mean, you made it sound like there was another Slayer, or something… Which, let’s be real, totally doesn’t fit with what Merrick told me, but…”

“You died,” he informed her, fixing his eyes over her left shoulder to avoid her gaze, and feeling a right numpty. “For a mo’. It was enough.” He fought to simply shrug it off. Every bit of it. He failed miserably. “The other chit’s up the coast a ways, in Sunnydale…” Would she go up there, help out with the slaying, or…

“So, why didn’t you go after _her?”_ And now, for the first time, there was the note of betrayal he had long since expected to hear in her voice. 

It racked him. It was agonizing. “It’s hard to explain…”

“Yeah, I bet,” she answered, sounding sharp and pained. “A girl out of her mind on drugs and locked up somewhere was probably an easier catch…”

At this his eyes jerked over to meet hers, involuntarily and horrified at her accusation. “No!” he bellowed. “It’s not like that at all! You’re the One, dammit! She’s nothing on you! She’s not fought anything like Lothos. She’s barely worthy of…” He shook his head to reset himself, dropped his eyes. “I could’ve taken her easy, if she didn’t have my grandsire helping her...”

“Oh. You have… family up there? It’s like, one of those things you told me about, where they could command you to help them fight her, or whatever?”

Christ, she was quick. If you told her something important, she retained the hell out of it. “Something like that. But it was more…” Bloody hell, this hurt. “It was more, she wasn’t you,” he managed, pain flowing from behind his teeth. “No challenge to her at all. Not like you. And I wanted… needed, it to be a real fight. Needed to deserve it.” He looked away again, unable to meet her accusing gaze. “And then, by the time I got to fight you, I realized I didn’t want to win.”

This seemed to take her aback. “What? Then why am I here? You keep talking about this great big fight of ours. Why, if you don’t want to win it?”

He shrugged helplessly. “Whatever _je ne sais quoi_ is, you have it, Slayer. That certain something that told me from the start that you were going to be my match.” He lifted his eyes to hers, and now he knew he was the one pleading for understanding. “I didn’t—I don’t—want to kill you—ever, yeah?—but even then, I didn’t want to before you had a chance to be whatever that is. Before you can be all you could be. It would be like cutting down a tree before it reaches full flower, just so that you can use it for firewood.” He managed a weary shrug, putting himself into her hands. “And that would be what it would be like to give you to Dru. Cutting down a mighty young oak to use it for a swift fire that ends in a day. I just… can’t bring myself to do it, even to feed the roots of an ancient one.”

To his amazement, the Slayer nodded as if she’d understood him. “So you not only didn’t feed me to her, but you stopped eating your normal way yourself? And you killed your minions who wouldn’t stop doing it that way, too?”

Hell. Hearing it from her lips like that made it so bleakly plain. /Fuck, I’m a mess. I’ll likely never be the same, will I?/ What the bloody hell was he going to do with himself, after she left? 

He shrugged a little defensively. “Wanted you to stay long enough for us to spend a bit more time together, before you inevitably had to leave, Slayer.” The words felt as if they were being torn from him, even if it was the right bloody thing to say. “But now’s the time, I’d say, yeah?”

Silence. One so long he felt anxious, shoved a hand into his inside pocket, seeking a smoke. He was just about to light up when her pensive tones caught him broadside again. “Angels are just demons who haven’t fallen yet, right?”

/Oh, Christ./ She was having fucking hallucinations or some shite. 

He had been far too fucking tender with her. “Oh, I’ve fallen, pet. Fell long and far and deep, and well before you were ever born.” /In more ways than one. Fucking harder than I ever have before, in the last few weeks, heaven help me. Not that it will./

Her eyes on his were verdant with belief. “Well, maybe you can climb back up.”

/Never happen. Not since you. Never will forget those eyes, looking on me./

Fuck, he needed to get her out of here. 

He could feel himself getting surly; rummaged around for enough ire to glare at her. “I’m no bloody angel, luv,” he informed her flatly, and pivoted on his heel to leave. 

He had just started off down the corridor when she leaned out, hand on the door, to chase him with her voice. “Spike, wait.”

He came to a halt a few yards away, tense and furious at himself, but unable to march off when she was hailing him. “Yeah?”

“So… is this really happening? Are you… kicking me out?”

/Fuck me all to hell./ There was a tiny tremble in her voice, even. “Not tossing you out, luv. Just trying to do right by you.” And he set off again, before he could think the better of his plan.

It was the only thing he could think to do.

***

The spell got her in close enough to at least see Angel. Unfortunately, it couldn’t help her to get him out of the prison where he lay, languishing half-naked and laid out to face the exit he couldn’t cross due to magicks, a mess of cross-shaped burns and bubbling, holy water blisters and shivering agony. 

/My fault./

The cell, a makeshift thing in the tunnels leading up to the underground chapel, had been spelled to keep her out, and him in, and was guarded by something in excess of fifteen vamps. Invisibility, by that point, was moot, since they could also all smell her, hear her, and all that other crap that vampires relied on much more heavily than they ever did on vision. 

She dusted at least half of them before she had to bail. As it was, she barely made it out of there without becoming his cellmate. Which would’ve been a lot less fun, she was sure, than they ever made it sound like in bad, x-rated movies.

Back up in the library, filthy with sewer-water and unwilling to spare the time even to change her begrimed shoes before getting to work, she reviewed the situation with her backup dancers—bonus one techno-pagan, since now Ms. Calendar was firmly back in the mix. Speaking of whom, all the sudden, the dark-eyed witch-chick was a fount of 411 about Angel, totally out of nowhere. “The thing about his, um, soul, that’s probably not in your books, is that it was put there as a very specific type of curse. Which is a really good thing, since it’s unlikely to come off while he’s down there with his family. I’m betting they’re trying to find ways to get it out of him so he can go back to being the vampire they remember. He was one of the worst, and the Master would want him back on their side. It can’t all be punishment for betraying him and helping the Slayer…” 

“How on Earth could you possibly know all that?” Giles demanded, looking suspicious.

Ms. Calendar went all squeamish and freaked out, and started to babble. “I mean, isn’t it obvious? Based on their motives and the way they’re treating him? Magicks 101 when it comes to curses and hexes, right?” 

Man, she’d looked anxious. Weirded out enough that Giles got all squinty as he studied her. 

Cordy didn’t have time to pursue it further, though. She would leave it in his hands. 

All she could think about, as she planned her next assault, was the look in Angel’s eyes when he’d begged her, his voice and eyes haunted, _“Don’t… come back, Cordy. What he… wants to do… to you…”_

She figured she probably didn’t really want to know.

***

The Slayer sat upright as if she’d a ramrod taped to her spine as they headed through the evening, toward the address Spike had read off her paperwork. She had all the things next to her that she’d decided to keep with her when they brought her home, and she appeared self-contained about it, in control of her emotions… but he thought she was also pained, beneath the surface. Fluttery, maybe a bit frightened. Not that he blamed her, considering she was about to go and meet the parents who’d chucked her in the looneybin just a few months back. 

/Well, they’ll do right by her this time, or I’ll bite ‘em, and that’s all of it./

She seemed very fond of him by now, was the thing. He could so very easily turn them round and head back to the warehouse… but it wouldn’t be fair to her, to Dru… or, really, to himself, by this point. If she were ever to turn to him, someday, it would need to be of her own accord, and not because she was sodding dependent on him for her survival. Not only that, she needed to grow up enough to be past the concept of being dependent on others for her survival, full stop. 

She just needed a few years under her belt, and that was all of it. Beyond that, if she were ever to become fond of him in her own right—enough so that he could accept it, believe in it—it would have to be for his own sake, rather than because she needed him, or because she was grateful to him. /Wouldn’t do, otherwise. Couldn’t trust it./

He’d had enough of being kept around because he was needed. He badly needed to be loved for himself, free and clear, and not merely because he was necessary to someone’s wellbeing. /Hell; don’t I _deserve_ that?/

He’d not get that from Dru. Not ever, and time he admitted it. He supposed he ought to thank the Slayer for coming into his life to show him the error of his ways, there… but damned if he was going to just fall into the same bloody trap again with someone new. No. He’d do better to go on alone. To go on with Dru as formers did who’d morphed into good friends, while he got his head on straight, and learned how to be whoever the bloody hell ‘Spike’ was, aside from being someone’s sodding caregiver. Then, maybe, someday, if the chit lived long enough, and decided to look him up again…

/Fuck, it’s the hell of the gamble, isn’t it./

It was also the only thing he could honestly stomach right now. He’d saved her from what those twats had done to her. It would have to be enough; at least for now. /Let me become a somewhat rosy memory. She’s started to resent me. Best to back off, before she ends in thinking of me as some sort of bleedin’ Stockholm Syndrome figure./ 

She needed to get her head on straight about all that had occurred, nearly as bloody much as he did.

The condominium in which she had spent her last few years eventually hove into sight, to loom over them on the starboard. Spike pulled his beloved land-yacht into a highly illegal parking spot right up next to a fire hydrant, and directly to the fore of a snazzy little coupe that probably belonged to the girl’s father—prat looked to be going through a midlife crisis, him—and turned off the ignition. “Go on then, luv,” he urged. “I’ll wait here till you give me the high sign.” 

Buffy nodded. Cracked the door. Hesitated. Cast a look up into the sky, with its fading remains of sunset. “Can you, uh… come with me, you think?”

He gave the air an automatic sniff, though his internal timer informed him that the sun was down and he was safe. Shrugged. Anything as made the transition easiest for her. “Whatever you want, pet.”

They strode up to the door. Buffy did some more waffling before she gave it a firm knock. 

A young woman answered—a bird maybe only ten years the Slayer’s senior, if that. “Yes?”

Buffy blinked at her. “Who’re you?”

“I might ask the same,” the bint answered, looking pinched and a bit disgusted. “If you’re selling Girl Scout Cookies…”

The Slayer started to get a little irate. “I _live_ here, you dork. Where’s my dad? My mom? The _Summerses?”_

“Oh. Oh, wow…” Hand flying to her mouth, the bird at the door got extremely wide-eyed, and looked uncertainly over her shoulder. “Hank!”

Buffy turned white under the pall of her institutionally-pale flesh. “Who _are_ you?”

“I… I think you should talk to your father. I’ll just…”

Footsteps sounded, some mumbled conversation. Spike easily made out, “…Think it’s your daughter!” and “…No way! My daughter’s…” before a balding prat with one of those well-fed, Club Med, too-friendly faces hove into view, shoving the bird aside. At which point all the bed-tanned color drained from his cheeks, and he stared. “Buffy? Oh my God, baby, where have you…” And the Slayer was grabbed and yanked into the man’s arms. 

Buffy clung for a long moment, apparently indulging in the feeling of her father’s spent worry and relief, before she was set back by her shoulders, given a little shake, then, “God, thank God you’re alright, we thought… Where have you _been?_ The doctors said you were abducted from the hospital by some… Some sort of crazed biker or something… And then Doctor Richards was killed…”

Spike winced.

Buffy, thank all the holies, seemed to miss that bit, she was so discombobulated by the reunion. “Uh, yeah. Uh, Dad, this is, um, Spike…”

Spike leaned round her to give a little wave. “Hullo, pops.”

The bloke in question blinked at him. The relief in his face slowly drained away, to be replaced by a growing suspicion. “Who is this guy, Buffy?”

“Uh, that’s a long story. He’s, uh, been keeping me safe and getting me off the drugs they put me on at the hospital. He, um…”

Clearly she wasn’t about to start talking about vampires, for which choice Spike couldn’t blame her. But, considering the lack of alternative explanation, her father was finding her other a bit threadbare. “Is this the guy who…” Alarm was swiftly replacing worry. “You just took my daughter out of there and… What?” His eyes flicked back to Buffy’s. “You’ve been holed up with him somewhere in the city, while I’ve had private eyes and the cops looking for you for over a _month_ …” Rage was growing in his face, red in his cheeks, his tones turning from concerned to apoplectic. “Buffy, how could you be so _thoughtless_ , so careless, so…”

“They were killin’ her in that place,” Spike informed the bastard flatly. “You left her in there. I got her out.”

 _“Excuse_ me,” the prat informed him, flipping one hand up as if he had the power to silence Spike with his palm. “No one gave you permission to horn in on our family discussion. You came in, _abducted_ my daughter from doctors who were only trying to _help_ her…” He swung back on his now-cringing daughter. “And _you!_ Now to see that the whole time you’ve just been with another… biker… punk… God, Buffy, how immature _are_ you, that you’re hanging out with this… This _criminal_ , and leaving us to worry? I mean, I know you’ve been having delusions, but for God’s _sake_ …”

Buffy had shrunk in on herself, all the confidence she had gained in the last couple of weeks lost as if it had never been. And, very abruptly, Spike had had enough.

He flashed fang. “This look like a delusion to you, you sonofabitch?”

The chit’s dad fell back from his doorway as if he’d been threatened with gunfire. All the color drained from his cheeks, leaving behind a sudden and extensive pallor. “Oh my _God!”_

“That’s right, you bastard. I exist. You left your daughter to rot in that hellhole because of us. I got her out. You’re gonna stop blaming her, yesterday, isn’t it?”

The cowed man in the doorway made a few strangled sounds. Spike contemplated draining him.

Straightening, Buffy sighed and laid a hand on his forearm. He groused inwardly, but exhaled and let his face fade back to the human, though with no small modicum of regret. 

Her eyes, though, never left her father’s face. “Where’s Mom?” she asked softly.

Nothing.

“Dad!” And when his gaze jerked away from Spike to stare at his daughter, “Where’s Mom?”

His eyes fled back to Spike, incapable, most like, of letting the dangerous viper out of his sight. Unknown quantity that he was, he might strike at any time. Fair enough, since Spike badly wanted to kill the git, was scarcely restraining himself, for Buffy’s sake. No doubt the tosser felt his danger, on an instinctive level. “We, uh, separated,” the prat answered, half-babbling now. “She didn’t want to keep you in the… But I… The cops said… I thought…” He sounded as if he were about to piss himself. Damn right.

Buffy leaned involuntarily back against Spike. He held her up, pained at the feel of her. She was trembling all over, and her eyes had fallen closed at the blow of it. Poor bird. Her parents had separated over the question of what to do about her. She would feel responsible. “Where is she living now?” she whispered into the silence.

“Sherman Oaks.” The sonofabitch’s voice was shaking. “2215 Enseñada Lane, apartment 2D.” It had the rattled-off sense of a person repeating something by rote. 

Spike nodded, ran a soothing hand up along Buffy’s arm. “C’mon, pet. Let’s go.”

Buffy turned away from her father, still all a’tremble, and let him guide her back to the car. 

He didn’t look at her as they made their way toward the freeway, didn’t comment. He didn’t think she’d like it that he knew she was crying.

***

After the way the meeting with Dad had gone, Buffy wasn’t sure she could face Mom. /It’s my fault they’re getting a divorce. My fault Mom’s lost everything. That she’s living up here in the Valley, in an apartment, while Dad’s down there in the condo, screwing some young girl that’s gonna make Mom feel replaced and old, and… God! She had to be like, only maybe twenty-five, what is Dad _thinking?_ /

It hurt. The whole thing hurt, and what if her mother turned her away just like her father had; blamed her, told her she was awful, sent her packing on the verge of Thanksgiving, like some kind of lost puppy. Because now Spike was saying she couldn’t live with him anymore, because she was too much for him to juggle. Too much for him to deal with, having a Slayer living with him alongside of his sire, who wanted to eat her so she could get well or whatever, and she was just too much work, and what if Mom also thought so, and no one wanted her anymore, and…

She couldn’t go up to that second door. She just couldn’t. Not after…

“Right at your back, Slayer. No worries. No matter what, I have your back.”

/Does that mean if Mom says I can’t stay, I can still go back with you?/

But… he really had. He’d had her back when no one else had. He’d totally fanged out at her father, when Dad had accused her of being infantile, and careless, and whatever all. He’d completely outed himself so that Dad would stop blaming her for everything, and that was… 

Well, for one, it had absolutely proved to her father that she wasn’t crazy, so that was cool. “What if…”

He was out. Was at her door, had his hand held out for her. Somehow, it didn’t even feel like he was trying to get rid of her. It just felt… supportive. “C’mon, luv. You were gonna have to find out sometime, innit?”

Closing her eyes, she drew several deep breaths, counted to ten, and tried not to think of her parents as the people who had left her to drown in that… facility. “I can do this.”

“You’re damn right, you can.”

“I can handle whatever.”

“Bloody right. Strongest person I’ve ever met. And I’ve been around for a bit.”

She would burst into tears if she sat here any longer listening to his pep talks. He believed in her too much. “Okay.” Her voice wavered, but it would have to do.

She followed him up to the door of the strange apartment. Knocked. 

When it opened on her mother’s face, it was all she could do not to fling herself into her mom’s arms, weeping. She held herself stiff, though, bearing down hard on Spike’s hand, behind her back. “Hey, Mom,” she managed, feeling a little bit outside of herself.

“Oh my God; _Buffy?”_ And before Buffy quite realized what had even happened she was engulfed; dragged into her mother’s arms and held, shaking, while her mother clung to her, and petted her, and cried over her, and this was going to be a repeat of the last one, wasn’t it? Just like Dad, and she couldn’t relax; god, she wanted to, wanted to sink into the hug, wanted to… But what if…

And then she was being put away from Mom, and Mom was cupping her face, and staring into her eyes, and she was saying, “Oh, I’m so glad you’re alright, I was so _worried_ …” And then she looked up, over Buffy’s head, her eyes briefly glancing over Spike. Back again, and she was saying, so earnestly, “I prayed. Every night, that whoever took her out of there did it to help her, not to hurt her. I knew she was dying in there, but I couldn’t get her out. I moved here to stay close, but I couldn’t keep going in there to see her. It hurt so much, seeing her like that. It killed me...”

/Oh, wow. She moved up here because it was close to…/

“And then those _men_ came, and convinced Dr. Richards to…” While Buffy was still whirling, she found herself grabbed up close again, kissed, held. “Oh God; I was so sure they were going to get the court order expunged, whoever they were, but then they just walked away, and Dr. Richards said you had to stay for a few more months, and Hank just nodded and signed off on the paperwork, and I couldn’t get them to change their minds for _anything_ …” And now there was a thread of something that sounded like rage underlying Mom’s tones; maybe even betrayal. Her voice, her hands were shaking. “Oh, Buffy, I’m so glad you got out of there…” And then she had her hand held out to Spike. “Please. Do come in. What… What’s your name?”

Spike looked dumbfounded at this welcome. “Ah…”

“His name’s S…” Buffy began, feeling bemused, but Spike interrupted her before she could really get started. 

“M’ name’s William Pratt, Mum,” he informed Mom, walking right over the top of Buffy’s introduction, and buh? “Pleased to meet you.”

“Oh, my. You’re English? Just like those other men? Do you know them? Sorry; as I said, please do come in…” Mom turned her body aside to allow them to enter, half-pulling Buffy along with her as she did to make room for Spike to join them in the tiny apartment foyer.

Buffy goggled as Spike walked cheerfully into the room, giving Mom a little nod as he passed. “Ah… If they are who I think they are,” he answered her calmly, “we are not associates. I’ve instructed them to leave our girl in peace, Mum, and they will, if they know what’s good for ‘em.”

“Who…” Buffy began, feeling by this point thoroughly thrown. 

“I’ll tell you later, Buffy,” Spike informed her, his tones oddly throaty. He sounded weirdly emotional, too, which was, what? 

They followed Mom into a tiny main space containing a small couch that was more of a loveseat, a low coffee table, one end-table, and a little TV. Off to one side was a mini dining nook containing a two-chair table, and a serving bar into an equally miniscule kitchen. The place looked more like a Mom-place than the condo ever had, though, being as every wall bore some piece of art that Buffy knew her mother had kept boxed away since college, because Dad hadn’t been big on most art aside from the occasional Modernist print.

Mom’s taste had always leaned more toward warm, earthy colors and mixed-media stuff; things Dad had dismissed as ‘hippie art’, and, like, how had they ever gotten along, with him dissing her likes like that? 

“Please, seat yourselves anywhere. Do you want any…” Mom frowned, dithering. “I’m afraid all I have is water and hot chocolate right now…”

Spike surprised Buffy by leaning forward abruptly and looking almost excited. “Is it the kind with the little marshmallows?”

“Actually, it is. I’ll be right back. Buffy?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure, Mom.” Everything was happening so fast…

Mom bustled away into the tiny kitchen, looking grateful to have something to do. Spike leaned back next to her on the loveseat and shot her a small, encouraging smile. “Not so bad this time, innit luv?”

“William Pratt?” she asked, utterly thrown.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “That’s a bloody state secret, yeah? Don’t go noising about it to all and sundry, or I’ll bite you.”

Something about his words made her feel… pleased? Amused? Surprised at the… playfulness of the sally? Something. She wasn’t sure what, but she felt she kind of liked it, so she came back, without really even thinking about it, with, “Oooooh, scaaary...”

“Cheeky bint.”

She found herself nonplussed at his comeback. “Sometimes I really wish you’d speak English.”

“Same, pet. Same.”

/Oh, wow, okay./ “Are we really gonna get into the ‘whose English is the weirdest? You just said ‘cheeky’! That sounds like you’re calling me a chipmunk! Seriously, what does that even mean?”

He looked offended. “It means… impudent. But in an endearing way. Hell. That I even have to _define_ …”

“Well, you two seem to know each other pretty well.” Two mugs were plopped down onto the coffee table before them, on coasters. “How long have you… been acquainted?”

Buffy jerked her gaze away from Spike’s mock-offended one to blink at her mother. “Oh. Uh… I guess like, a month or something? A month and a half?” She shrugged. “I was kinda out of it for the first week and a half or something, while he walked me off of the drugs, so I don’t remember much about it…”

To her amazement, Mom nodded and, falling slowly into a nearby ladderback chair she’d pulled from dining area, she buried her face in her hands. “I knew you didn’t need those medications,” she whispered. “And this is proof, because you sound _so_ much better now. So much more sane. But they kept insisting, and I just…” 

She shook her head, her face still in one palm. “I thought it was my fault. I used to have all these awful dreams, when I was younger.” Her eyes lifted. Landed, pleading, on Buffy’s. “Around your age, about monsters, so I thought maybe you inherited some tendency toward psychosis from me. A genetic… adolescent… prone-ness or something. I made the mistake of mentioning it to Hank, when he was trying to keep you in there. I thought it would help. I told him I got over it without all that… that barbaric…” Her voice was trembling, while Buffy just stared, horrified. “He told me that that just meant that I didn’t get the help I needed, and that clearly he’d married a woman with a mental flaw, and because of me, his daughter had one too…” She inhaled sharply, exhaled as swiftly. “And we separated.” 

At Buffy’s side, Spike muttered something that sounded like, ‘Bloody hell.’ 

Buffy barely heard him. Mom’s eyes had locked on hers. “I’m so, so sorry, Buffy, that I didn’t get you out of there somehow. I tried. I _really_ did, after your father and I parted ways… but I was weak for too long. I kept wondering if maybe they were right. I should’ve…”

Spike was still muttering things, far in the distance; something that sounded like ‘potential’. Before she could even process what Mom was saying, he leaned forward, lightly patted Mom’s hand, and said, “The monsters you saw when you were younger, Mum… Did they look anything like this?” And, with one of those little, disarming tilts of his head, and before Buffy could remotely talk him out of it, he morphed into his vamp-face.

Mom didn’t jump back or shriek, like Dad had. She just stared, horror carved all over her face. Then her hand leaped back up to her mouth. “Oh. Oh _God_ . It’s real. It was all _real,_ the entire time.” And her gaze darted over to Buffy, and now there were tears in her eyes. “Oh, Buffy, I am so, _so_ sorry. It was _real_ , wasn’t it. You were telling us the truth the entire time, and we…” Her voice trailed off into soft, poignant sobs.

Buffy found herself in the remarkable position of having to comfort her mother as she wept over what they had done to her, rather than the other way around, as she wept the guilt, and it was bizarre. She glanced once over her shoulder at Spike, but he’d already gone back to his human face, and was watching her a little sadly while she patted Mom’s back and murmured things like, “It’s over now,” and, “Yeah, it’s real, he’s real,” and, “It’s gonna be okay, Mom.”

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, oh God…”

Somehow, about a half an hour later, Buffy found herself standing at the doorway of a bedroom that had been set up to look almost like the mirror-image of the one she’d lived in back in Santa Monica, if a little smaller. Everything was lovingly set in its place; everything she had left behind the night she’d walked out with her cans of AquaNet to face down Lothos’ nest, and never come back. 

It felt like a window into someone else’s life.

Spike appeared behind her as if by magnetism. “Well, sounds like you’ve a place to be, now, luv, innit? A sight nicer than livin’ in a condemned warehouse on the docks with a nest full of demons.” 

A short pause. Clearly he expected her to agree. 

She was too discombobulated to do so. Everything was moving too fast, everything was too weird, her life was just…

She _couldn’t_.

He started gamely again, after a sec. “Anyroad, your mum clearly loves you senseless. That, and she feels so soddin’ guilty she’s gonna knock herself out doin’ anything she can to make you happy, make you feel safe...

Buffy closed her eyes, reached out blindly to make a grab for Mr. Gordo, sitting there on the dresser to the right of the door. She wanted to turn, bury herself in Spike’s body, beg for a hug, but right now that seemed weird, maybe out of the question. They weren’t really on a hugging basis. But…

She really didn’t want him to go. 

“Best I leave, before it comes out I’d originally taken her daughter from that soddin’ place in hopes of fighting her to the death, yeah?”

Buffy made a noise that might, on some planet, be interpreted as a laugh. Spike apparently took it as such, for he chuckled all low and rumbly and laid a cool hand on her shoulder. “You’ll get on alright, luv. Get back to your life, an’ the lot.”

The words were out before she could quite censor them. “So… you’re just gonna go back to your life, the way it was… before? Like this never happened, and…”

He stilled completely. There was absolute silence for a long moment; so long that she almost thought he would never speak again. Then, “I don’t think that’s remotely possible for me, Buffy.” And that was the most honest thing she thought she had ever heard him say. 

It made her stomach do flips, wondering what he meant.

She knew what she felt, though. Everything, all of it, was…

“Me either.”

Silence reigned. Then, awkwardly, “I’d best be headed back. Dru only has the one minion to keep her out of trouble.”

/Of course, you have to go back, take care of her, do your… Your vampire thing…/

Buffy squinched her eyes shut, fighting the tears that wanted to fall. Why did she feel so deserted? He was leaving, though, and…

Her fingers punched hard into Mr. Gordo; whitened with the strength it took not to turn to him. To beg him not to go. “Will I ever see you again?” she managed, hoping she sounded more curious than desperate.

His answer came faster, this time. “If you decide to look me up, pet, I won’t be put out by it.” And, pivoting, he headed away from her, down the miniscule hall and toward the door. She could hear him murmuring something in passing, to her mother; making his farewells, she thought. 

She held Mr. Gordo against her, feeling bereft. Pressed the stuffed pig between her hands, clutched it to her chest as she stared around her at the room her mother had kept for her. She had kept… well, everything of Buffy’s, had scraped together the cash every month to keep a two-bedroom just in case. Had only sparsely furnished the rest of the place so that she could afford to set this room up just so; all in the clear hopes that she’d get her daughter back, have her home again sometime, and…

/And I can’t disappoint her, can I? She’s done all this, and clearly she’s dying to have me back, and…/

It all felt so alien to her, now, though, after everything she’d been through. The pink-ness of it, and the boyband posters, and the frilly stuff, and the music box from Dad, which just made her feel bad now, like he hated her. Just, all the… the frivolity of everything in there.

It was all the stuff of another life, all part of a too-young her who had never been to the hospital, never been drugged or tied down, never seen a vampire, never staked one, never burned one, never faced down an ancient monster after he’d killed her Watcher. 

Never become close with a man, a vampire, who was over a hundred years old, and, like some kind of enigma, had turned from foe to friend. Been kinder to her than most people in her entire life, and supported her through the worst experience she could ever imagine. 

This was… It was the room of a cheerleader with not a care in the world, who liked to suck on lollipops and chew gum and talk about boys, and it all just felt like bullshit to her now. /How am I gonna even _sleep_ in this room? There’s nowhere to get up and work out if I need to get the heebie-jeebies out…/ She stared at the phone, lying there at her bedside. Who the heck would she call? Not Becky or any of those girls. They all thought she was a freak even before she’d been sent to the nuthouse. 

Pike? He’d probably moved to Alaska or something by now. /No one to talk to about the real stuff. No one to spar with, or tell about what I have to do, if I decide to take up slaying again, no one to…/

There was no vampire confidant, here. No dojo down the hall. No endless supply of high-protein, high-carb snacks to supply her Slayer-driven appetite. Mom was in the know, now, but there would be an adjustment. And until then…

She already missed Spike.

/I’ll stay… for three days./ The decision was sudden, but certain. She already felt better, making it. /And then, if in three days, I can’t hack it… I’mma go back. At least talk to him. Because what if he needs me, or…/

Maybe she was full of it, and he’d be better off without her. But, like, she didn’t even have a way to call and check in on him.

/Three days./ 

It was all she could imagine staying away. Even that seemed like forever.

***

Whichever way the bird flew… That alone might tell him what to make of himself. Whatever way she flew, in future? 

That would tell him who he might, in the end, become, and which way lay home.

* * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Don't look at me like that, everyone.   
It's all gonna come together and be alright, I swear.  
*hides*  
  
Happy New Year, y'all. Bye, 2020, don't let the door hit ya on the way out!


	11. The Prophecy Girls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are; at the end, finally, of Part 2 of this saga, and springboarding into part 3. With, I'd like to think, something of a bang, as I echo some of the events of canon in some hopefully new and interesting, tension-making ways. 
> 
> *VEG*
> 
> (Unfortunately this got long again... but there was nothing for it, this time.)

** Section 11B: The Prophecy Girls **

In the end, getting Angel out took carrying a spell down there with her. Ms. Calendar seemed super-squeamish about helping her with it, but she begged so much that finally the teacher gave in. “Just… When you get him out… Look. I know… you care a lot about him. But you need to know something about him. The way he…” 

Cordy didn’t have time for some kind of weird, stuttery thing. Either the chick had 411 for her or she didn’t. “Yeah? I have a guy to break out of vampire prison, so can we hurry this up?”

Ms. Calendar’s expression flitted from uncertain to weirdly hard, strangely decided. “Don’t get too close, alright?” And then the teacher stared at her with a peculiar, weird intensity, as if she were trying to tell Cordy something. 

Cordy frowned. “Alright? Look, I gotta go. Thanks for the spell-bomb.” She waved a hand in dismissal, her back already turned, and dragged in a deep breath. “See you all on the flipside.”

“Stay safe!” Xander called after her as she departed, and then protested, “What?” when Willow elbowed him. 

Cordelia ignored the nerdy byplay. She had shit to do.

Needless to say, the bomb worked at its double purpose. It exploded a hole in the invisible cage around Angel, and disoriented all the vamps around her while it was at it; just long enough for her to grab him up off the ground, throw one of his limp arms over her shoulder, and half-drag him with her out into the sewers. 

After that it was a footrace, while half-carrying his lame, lolling self. Though, give credit where it was due, he really did try to help. He was just too beat up and damaged to be super capable. 

Luckily she was a tough chick with superpowers, or they’d’ve both ended up back in his teeny, magickal prison. 

She got him back to the school, it being essentially right on top of the nasty chapel-thing where the Master hung out. Everyone winced when they saw what was left of him. Even Xander, who tended to treat Angel like he was dog poop on everyone’s shoe, had about one-third of his sympathy reflex engaged, and agreed to help get him to his weird little half-underground tank of an apartment. “I’ll, you know, help him get into his shower and whatever. He’s, like, covered in holy water and slime. He needs some sprucing up.”

Angel, still kind of lolling, winced, but he was gracious enough to thank Xander for his assistance once they got back to his place, while Cordy, who was legit sickened by his appearance, hung around near the doorway with Willow and internally wrung her hands. Not on the surface, though, of course. On the surface she was calm and in charge, the way Queen C and a Slayer was supposed to be.

She wasn’t alone in being rattled, at least. Heck, even Giles had been horrified, though he’d tried to hide it. Cordy had been able to tell by the way he’d immediately removed his glasses; a total thing of his when he didn’t want to see stuff too clearly. Not that he was volunteering to come down here and help clean the guy up. Xander way got extra points for that, even if he was just doing it to get on Cordy’s good side. 

A little while later, after Angel was back out and sitting—or, rather, sagging—on the edge of his bed, Xander shrugged and joined them by the door. “He’s pretty beat up. He probably needs, y’know, blood, and to sleep for a week, but…”

“Thank you, Xander,” Cordelia murmured. She couldn’t’ve done this without the team, and she was woman enough to admit it. 

“Here,” Willow put in, and held out an unremarkable white cylinder. It was the kind you got from cheap take-out places. 

Cordy blinked in confusion. 

“It’s blood,” Willow explained. “I grabbed it from the butcher’s on the way here.”

“Oh. Wow. Thanks. I didn’t…” Cordy cut off when the Styrofoam container with its opaque plastic lid landed in her hands, heavy and anonymous. If they didn’t get out of here soon, she was going to get emotional. Tears were already pricking at the corners of her eyes. Everyone was being way too helpful. It was freaking her out, and Angel was over there, looking… “I really… appreciate it.”

Willow seemed to sense that she was losing it, because she grabbed Xander’s sleeve. “C’mon, Xander. Let’s go. She needs to make sure he’s okay before she takes off.”

“Uh, right. Okay. Uh, see you tomorrow. At school.”

“Yeah,” Cordy breathed. “Right. At school.”

As soon as they were gone, she got a hold of herself, and moved over to sit next to Angel on the bed. At this point, she was so way over being demure; like she had ever been, right? “Hey.” She held out the container with a little shrug. “Willow brought this. I can heat it, if you tell me what to put it on. I’m betting it’ll help.”

Barely staying upright, his elbows propped on his thighs, and dressed only in slacks, Angel looked like hell. He had massive burns all up along one side of his body, down over his ribs, and nearly obscuring one nipple. He had a tattoo on his back on one side—who knew?—some Celtic-looking deal, but right now it was all bubbly-looking and blistered. He had the imprints of crosses all over him; everywhere there was spare flesh. She’d seen enough of him before his spruce-up—he’d been in his boxers then—to know that both types of damage extended to his legs. The pants must feel horrible. She should leave soon so he could get naked and heal. 

She just needed to make sure he was fed, first. “Like, is it two minutes? Three, or…”

“Two’s fine, for something that size.” It came out a pained half-whisper. “If you stir it.”

“Alright.” She rose, headed for the microwave.

His rising, panicked whisper chased her. “You don’t have to…” The wince was there, in his voice, like he thought he had to protect her from what he was, how he ate, and he was an idiot. 

“Shut up!” she insisted, her back turned to him. “Just, don’t.” If he did, she would fall apart, and she couldn’t afford that right now. Crying was reserved for when she was alone in her room; had been since before junior high. That was just the way of the world. No one could ever see the real Cordelia; the side of her that dared to crumble. She was always strong in public; self-contained in front of others.  _ “A  _ real _ woman” _ her mother had told her since she had entered her first baby beauty pageant,  _ “never smears her makeup, and never needs a touch-up in public because of something someone else said. You save that for when you’re alone.” _

Angry now; at herself, at the world, at all of it, she shoved the container into the microwave, ripped off the lid, tossed it aside, slammed the door shut; only managed to hold back on her force at the last minute with the recognition that if she didn’t, she’d break the damn thing, because Slayer strength. “Two minutes.” She could slam drawers, though, and went about banging her way through his not-quite-a-kitchen, seeking something stir-worthy in the emptiness. Eventually she found a single spoon, and slammed her way angrily back to the microwave in time to interrupt progress at a minute, give the stuff a spin, start it again. 

She whirled back then, to stare at him with arms crossed, daring him to speak. He didn’t, just lowered his head, let it hang between his shoulders. He looked too exhausted for words. Defeated. /Oh, man./ 

The microwave beeped. She wrenched open, marched to him, held out the blood. He took it, moving too slowly, every inch of him broadcasting agony, and this was all her fault. He’d done it because she’d asked him to. He’d been right about staying under the radar. He’d done it for her, and now look at…

God, she was so  _ mad _ at herself. More than that…

He wasn’t looking at her. He hadn’t met her eyes since she’d dragged him out of there, and oh, god, was  _ he _ mad at her? He should be. Could he ever forgive her for getting him into this? 

She bit her lip, fought for stability, knowing she had to say the words before she left, and uncertain if she did, that she could avoid breaking down. Which he didn’t deserve. He shouldn’t have to comfort her. Not right now. 

But he did deserve to know that she got it, and that she was sorry. “You probably want me out of here. And I will. I’m out, ASAP, so you can relax. I just wanted you to know…” Oh god, her voice was cracking. She put some starch in her spine. /Two minutes. You can last two minutes, before you leave. Just long enough to say what you need to, to him. You can cry once you get outside his door. So be a big girl, Cordelia Chase, and do what’s right!/ “I wanted you to know that I’m sorry, and I’ll never ask you to put yourself on the line like that for me again. I can’t take it back, but I’ll do my best to fix it. And…” His eyes were rising to meet hers now, and if he looked at her she would lose it. “I’m  _ so _ sorry, Angel.” 

She fled before he could answer, and let the tears fall once she was outside his door. The night didn’t judge.

***

“So, tell me about this guy Spike.”

Buffy’s head jerked up as if it were on some sort of puppet-string. She stood there for a second with her knife-hand hovering above the carrots, and stared at her mother, somehow startled by the question. “What?”

Mom passed her the potatoes she’d peeled. “He took you out of the hospital and had you living somewhere in Long Beach with him, and then he brought you home. That’s all I know about him.” She paused briefly, and her voice took on the slightest edge of a quaver. “And that he’s a… Um, one of the… The people you were fighting, before. When you…”

Buffy closed her eyes and set down the knife beside the cutting board. There was so much. So much she didn’t even know how to explain it all; and on top of that… 

Man; she just really had no idea how to talk to her mother anymore. All she kept seeing when she thought about it was weird, fuzzy-edged, wavery images of Mom’s face, leaning over her where she lay flat on a bed, looking all stressed and pained while Buffy begged her to take her home, and Mom saying, “I want to, baby, I really do, but you need to stay here for now. For a little while…”

It had been months.  _ Months _ , since she’d really seen, much less had a normal conversation with her mother. She honestly wasn’t sure how to go about it. And now, to top it off, her mom wanted to chat with her about vampires; and, even more insane, about the one who had become, bizarrely, probably her best friend in the world. /The world as it now stands, anyway, and…/

Man, how did that even  _ compute? _

“I mean, did you know him before, or…”

Mom was planning on having this whole convo on her own, without any input at all from Buffy, if she didn’t jump in. She might just get it all wrong, if Buffy didn’t say something, oh god. “Uh, he… No. I… met him the night he showed up at the hospital. He…”

“The doctors said you kept calling out for someone named Spike to help you, though.”

Buffy frowned and shook her head in quick, dismissive negation. “That was Pike. He was a senior. He believed me, helped me a little because his best friend got turned.” At her mother’s uncomprehending expression, “Turned into a vampire,” she elaborated patiently, and realized she was starting to feel a little out-of-body, considering she was standing here in the tiny kitchen, in the midst of the first dinner prep she’d participated in almost nine months (if not more, since she hadn’t exactly been big with the help-age, before her Calling), calmly attempting to explain to her mother how her foray into the world of LA’s supernatural underworld had begun. “Uh, so, how it went was, there was this guy, named Merrick…” Out of nowhere, she felt nauseous. Bent over, still holding the knife, to grip the counter, hold it tight as the wave of sickness and fear spread through her. /Breathe. Just breathe./ 

“Buffy, are you okay?”

She couldn’t really answer that. Not in a way that would be being honest, so she skipped it. “Um, Merrick,” she forged on, eyes closed and head down, “was a Watcher. They, um, train girls who are Slayers…”

Mom stilled beside her. “That’s what Spike called you. He said you were some kind of special vampire-fighter.”

“Yeah.” The conversation was too weird. She might just cry. Or freak out. 

She couldn’t stop seeing Merrick. His eyes, with the gun in his mouth, begging her to get on the motorcycle with Pike and get out. Just a flash of an instant, before they’d bailed, but she’d be haunted by that look of regret, sorrow, grim determination, and the certitude of death; haunted for the rest of her life. 

He’d come to help her… and he’d died. And she’d watched, and then left him behind, alone, to do it. /To kill himself./ 

There’d been nothing she could do. Nothing but watch, and then leave, and…

“Buffy? Baby, are you…”

She shook her head hard, fighting to focus on the now. For one thing, the last thing she needed was for Mom to think she really should be back in the hospital. /Gotta keep it locked up. Gotta deal with just the facts./ “The big vamp who was running things, Lothos… He captured Merrick. Merrick killed himself so that Lothos couldn’t use him to get to me. I saw him put the gun in his mouth. He told me to bail, and then he…” She couldn’t. Couldn’t finish, so she trailed off, her stomach cramping, her throat raw and aching, her eyes filling with tears. /Don’t cry, or Mom will…/

“Oh, Buffy…” And suddenly she was in Mom’s arms. “You saw a man commit suicide? Right in front of you?”

She managed a head-shake against Mom’s cheek. “I guess I have some reasons to be screwed up, vampires or no vampires. Huh.”

“Oh, my baby…” Mom sounded so agonized, hearing this. Hearing the things she’d gone through. “Did they ever even ask you, in the hospital…”

Buffy snorted derisively and pulled away to turn back and resume her vicious dicing. “As if.” She shrugged one-shouldered, as she pulverized the carrots, and then started on the potatoes. It would be a very smooshy stew, probably. “Anyway, some of the vamps Pike and I fought were made from kids from school, which sucked.” She shook her head hard, to dispel the flash-memories of faces, before they’d dusted. “I mean, I knew them, sorta. Not really, you know. Like, they weren’t my besties, or anything…” /Just kids you pass in the halls. No one I really cared about, but still./

/How messed up  _ am _ I?/

It was only then, as she reduced the potatoes to miniature cubes of white mush, that she realized she was shaking, and why, oh why  _ hadn’t _ those doctors in that hospital tried to help her deal with the, like… /What is this? PTSD or something?/ From all she’d been through, instead of just doping her up?

/Oh, right/ she reminded herself sardonically. /Because I made it all up. So my symptoms are fake too, right?/

Mom’s hand fell over hers, calling a halt to her overzealous chopping. “Buffy. I think those are done.” Her voice was soft, worried.

Buffy came to a standstill, and only then heard her ragged breathing. And, oh, crap. Time to change the subject. “So, anyway,” she went on, breathing hard and forcing a bright, brittle edge into her voice, “when Spike found me at the hospital, he was kind of pissed off, I think. He felt like because I’d managed to take out a vamp as old as Lothos, plus so many of his nest, when Merrick only had about four days to train me, that I’d earned more than being locked up in the looneybin.” 

“Oh, Buffy, I’m so…”

Buffy couldn’t. Couldn’t deal again with the regret, so she lifted her hand and waved it, calling for a cease-fire to the merry-go-round of apologies. “So he got me off the sauce, and started training me himself.” She stilled, then, caught up in oddly calming memories. Found herself looking out, through the tiny window over the kitchen sink, but seeing other walls. “He’s good. Mostly because he’s fought other Slayers over the years; I think because he’s, like, bored with living a hundred years or however long. He respects Slayers because we’re the best, or the strongest, or whatever. So he helped me to learn more about what I can do and stuff, and got me healthy… and then when he decided he couldn’t keep me safe, and also keep his girlfriend safe at the same time, he brought me home.” She felt the wince spread to her cheeks. “Well,” she finished, sarcasm a felt thing in voice and face. “To Dad, first, then here.”

Something about what she’d said seemed to relax something in Mom, for she nodded and moved to set aside the cutting board and bowl they’d been using. She came close, laid a careful arm over Buffy’s taut shoulders. “Well… I’m glad you have such a good friend. Someone who… respects you, and who you can trust.”

Buffy nodded and looked away from the window, down at the floor. “Yeah,” she muttered, feeling oddly disgruntled, now that said friend had brought her home like a stray kitten and dropped her off to be Mom’s problem. 

/Stop that!/ her logical brain informed her, a dash of cold water. /Stop being a brat. You know he’s just trying to do the right thing. Which, from a vampire’s perspective, is probably like, what? But he is. And you know you were wondering if Mom—and Dad, but whatever—were worried sick about you, and you were totally getting homesick, so stop whining. He wasn’t trying to get rid of you. He was being the same weirdly nice guy he’s been since whenever, no matter how… what’s the word? It’s like the Nirvana guy. Curt he is sometimes. He’s always tried to make things easy on you, so quit it./

The problem was, she missed him. Missed the ease of talking with him. Missed having fewer emotional upheavals. Talking to Mom hurt. It was hard work. 

Even  _ thinking _ of Dad was agony.

“So, now that you’re home, you can help me plan for Thanksgiving, Buffy. Obviously you get to make the stuffing…”

/Oh. Oh, man, right./ “Uh, okay.” /Thanksgiving for two, hooray./ “Is it just gonna be us?” Though, to be fair, it would be so not good if they were all in a room with Dad and his new chippie.

Mom smiled at her and reached out to brush her hair out of her eyes. “We could invite your Aunt Arlene…”

“Oh, God.” Aunt Arlene was bad enough on a regular year. Now, with the gossip gospel of Buffy in the mental ward as tactless conversation fodder, having her here would be a literal nightmare. “Much with the no. Can we skip it? Just us?”

Mom eyed her for a sec, then, “Will you want to invite Spike?”

“Wait, what?” It was like being thrown into a conversational brick wall. She simply could not recover fast enough for the words to make a single ounce of sense.

Mom seemed thrown by her confusion. “To Thanksgiving,” she elaborated. “Since he’s your friend…”

Buffy stared in amazement, as the meaning of the words slowly percolated through her shock. “I… don’t think he’d eat… Thanksgiving food,” she managed, unable to hold in her head the image of her vampire friend chowing down on turkey breast and cranberry jelly.

“Oh,” Mom answered, taken aback. “Right. I forgot.” Then, confusion reigned. “He drank the cocoa. With the marshmallows."

Buffy frowned at this, baffled. “Yeah, he did, didn’t he?” And when they’d been out ‘shopping’ for shoes and hair dye, he’d also snagged a pretzel from behind the pretzel-maker’s stall and munched on it like it was blood-filled or something, and huh. “Maybe he’s just that much of a weirdo?”

“Maybe you can invite him just in case? Maybe he’d like the time to gather, whether he eats or not.”

“Huh.” She might just consider it, if only because she damn well missed Spike. 

She was missing him more every stupid minute, actually.

***

Cordy couldn’t concentrate at school the next day; not that that was new. She’d been having a tough time paying attention for days, since he’d been taken; working out plans on the backs of notebooks, doodling schematics of the tunnels…

It was worse, somehow, now, having seen the extent of the damage, than it had been when she’d been freaking out trying to get to him. It got to the point today that all her teachers noticed, and she ended up having to admit to Ms. Stetson that she was ‘worried about a sick friend’. 

“Actually, technically not sick so much as injured,” she was stunned to hear Willow back her up as she filed out of Communications class with the rest of the students. 

“Uh, yeah,” Xander chipped in, belated but randomly helpful. “He, uh, got hit by a car, so he’s, uh, kinda beat up…”

“Oh, wow. Well, if you need a pass to leave campus and check in on your friend during lunch, I’m sure we can get Principal Snyder to…”

“No, I’m sure he’s sleeping the day away right now.” Honestly, Cordy didn’t think she could face Angel again for at least twenty-four hours. Maybe not for the next few days. “But, um, thank you.” She hustled out of the classroom before the teacher’s unexpected kindness—much less Willow and Xander’s—could make her emotional. She’d done too much crying last night, alone in her room. No one needed to see her all puffy-eyed again. Heck, Mom had even noticed, last night, and asked her if she needed a valium. 

As if that would help. Her problem wasn’t anxiety, right now. It was guilt. /Also, how many times have I told you, Mom, I don’t pop pills when life gets hard?/ 

She would have snapped it aloud to her mother, last night, instead of keeping it all inside, but she had somehow managed to bite her tongue. Her mother was an addict, but she had been, in her own way, trying to help. No reason to bite her head off. 

Cordy had stuck instead with staying distant, passing off her father’s oblivious goodnights and hiding herself away to avoid any further interference. She’d needed the time to get herself cried out and get it together, since school was not the best place to fly under the emotional radar. Still, she was Queen C. She knew what she was doing. How everyone was noticing that she was a mess was beyond her. “Uh… thanks for the help, back there,” she managed, lifting her chin to keep her own spirits up as she exited the room behind the other two.

“Uh, so, how is he?” Willow asked, sounding uncertain.

Cordy looked away, didn’t answer. Mostly because she couldn’t.

“I’ve never seen anyone look that bad,” Xander put in, with his usual lack of tact. There was being straightforward—a skill Cordy had honed—and just being a blundering dope. 

He reeled it back in when she lasered him with a pointed glare. “Sorry. It’s just…” He hesitated, then shrugged. “I guess I never thought of them as, you know, people. Who could actually, I mean… be hurt. They were always just… vampires. Monsters. But if the monsters can hurt him, that kinda… you know. Makes him a person, you know what I mean?”

/Oh my God./ “Welcome to the land of the obvious, Xander,” Cordy snapped, sarcasm on full. Though… 

/Oh, dammit./ “Sorry. I’m mad at myself, as much as I am at you for being an idiot. He wouldn’t have been captured and tortured if I didn’t insist on him helping me against his own relatives. So.” She dragged in a hard breath and nodded, straightening. “This is all my fault, actually.”

Xander and Willow stared at her so hard she could feel it, even though she avoided their eyes. “What?”

Willow shook her head. “You can’t take responsibility for his choices, you know. He did what he did because he wanted to.”

/Yeah, right./ “Because I told him to! He always does what I say. That’s how we work!” Damn, she wanted to punch something. Go back down to that nest and kill every vampire in it who had tortured her guy, and then go after that asshole ‘Master’, and… 

“Oh, jeez,” Xander broke in. “I didn’t really wanna know that.”

“Shut up, Xander.” The response was automatic. “I don’t know if I…”

Out of nowhere, Ms. Calendar rounded the closest bank of lockers to appear at their shoulders. “Oh, good. I wanted to check in. How… Rupert said the rescue was successful. How… is he?”

Cordy couldn’t. She turned away.

“He’s pretty messed up,” Willow informed the techno-witch teacher quietly. 

“I can’t look at him,” Cordy admitted; mostly to Ms. Calendar, who had that  _ thing _ about her; that thing that felt easy to confess to. Easier than those other two, anyway. “Not when we both know it was my…”

Xander interrupted again, his voice sounding kind of weird. “If you want, I can go check on him for you. You know. During lunch.”

Cordy swung around to stare at him in amazement. If he’d said he’d turn himself into a dog and bark at the library door, she would have been less startled. “Why?” she demanded bluntly.

He shrugged. “Because I get feeling ashamed, and not wanting to go back to the scene of the crime. Because he basically took a bullet for you, and I can respect that. Because he’s a mess, and needs checking-in-age. Because it’s a guy thing—yanno, being tough in front of a girl?—but he might not feel like he has to, in front of me, so maybe he’ll talk. If you’re not there, to, you know, make him act all fine and dandy, because pride.” 

His voice softened a little. “And because it matters to you.”

/Oh, jeez, with the last one./ But she wasn’t about to say no to getting an update without having to face him herself. “Thank you, Xander.”

“Hey, no big.”

Cordy honestly wasn’t sure what she’d done before she had a team. 

She knew for a fact that it had been a lot harder, though.

***

Spike really wanted to kill someone. 

Couldn’t, of course, but he really wanted to. 

What the bloody hell did one do for fun when he couldn’t off random passersby to let off steam?

The only remaining minion was clever enough, after having seen what had happened to the others. He knew to stay away, anymore, so that was out. No one to dust…

Well, that wasn’t at all correct. He could go out and dust any bastard who might go after the girl, while she was still a bit off her game, wasn’t it? Buy her time while she decided what she wanted to do next, figured out how to re-enter a long-since vacated life. She deserved that courtesy, didn’t she? 

Especially since the asshats who’d been running her life hadn’t deigned to help her in any way while she’d been, in essence, incarcerated. The gits had another it-girl to use as a sodding chained hound. Far as he could reckon it, the Slayer Line no longer ran through Buffy. No reason she ought to have to do the work unless she felt driven to it.

/Though, if I know Slayers, she will, at some point, if only to satisfy the instincts. And when she does, she’ll need someone to watch her back./ 

Slayers made enemies. It was just the wonted way of things.

He took to hunting round about her neighborhood, staking vamps and doing away with other nasties who didn’t play nice, if only for something to do with his endless hours. Those he didn’t spend morosely muttering about the warehouse, driving to nowhere and back, and sitting with his head in his hands, confessing to Dru. Who was, by the way, going a bit off the sodding deep-end, again.

One might think she’d be doing better, without the Slayer about to upset her, like a lolly she couldn’t lick. Instead, it was a bleeding back-and-forth. One hour, she’d take it well that Spike had released the chit, and there’d never be an opportunity for Dru to have her blood. In those moments, having the Slayer elsewhere seemed to be helping her mood. Spike thought perhaps it took the pressure off her visions, having that impetus gone, in that she seemed to enjoy fewer rapid-cycling swings from one extreme to another. 

Which, one would assume, might mean he could care for her without her lashing out at him. That she might even commiserate with him without undue harm. 

And that was how it was, for the most part. Except, apparently, when something would hit her not from the pixies, but from Miss Edith, who always seemed to struggle against said pixies. Whoever the bloody hell Miss Edith represented, she had always rebelled against the faerie set; from the bleeding start, and these last few days were no exception. “Gone…” Dru moaned, staring out the open door of the warehouse, which was currently bathed in sunlight. A deathtrap. “Gone, and no way for little Drusilla to become strong enough for what’s needful. And Daddy’s gone to visit Great-Grandfather, and been punished. It is almost time…” Something seemed to jolt through her then, and she swung to stare at Spike, grabbed at his lapels, stared into his eyes so intently that he nearly staggered back. “Need to be strong enough when it’s time.”

“Bloody hell, Dru. What the hell do you want me to say? I’m sorry about it. We’ll find another way, innit? Are you saying there’s something about Angelus that might help you, or something old Batface has squirreled away…”

“Can’t tell him. He doesn’t want to know. He’ll become very angry if I do. Doesn’t know the pieces are moving on the board…”

“Oh, Christ.”

Aside from a few agitated moments such as these, however, Dru seemed… at station-keeping of late. Which was… nice. She was, in fact, damn near lucid a lot of the time; and as to their relationship? They had, the two of them, settled into a sort of odd, asexual understanding; one he had come to realize, out of the blue a few days in, was a decent enough pattern for the future. They were still closer to one another than anyone could ever be, knew each other better than anyone else ever would. They were, in effect, dear friends, and would always be. He loved her, she loved him, and they’d be there for one another. In fact, with the pressure off one another to be lovers, they were actually perhaps better for one another than they had been before. He had fewer expectations of Dru that she could not fulfill, and she seemed to feel the same. They were, for the most part, easy in one another’s presence. 

It was, quite frankly, rather nice, and Spike found himself treasuring their time as one of the few bright spots in an otherwise agonizing, dragging experience of days. 

Missing the Slayer’s presence was like having a throbbing, hollow hole cored through one’s middle. Every time he turned about, he expected her to be there. He looked into her room each time he passed it, like a self-abusing nit; sagging there with his hands on the doorframe and dragging in long whiffs of her scent to torment himself. He kept the room tight closed otherwise, to keep her aromas bottled up in there, so that they might remain for as long as possible. They were going stale, though, damn him all to hell. No way to win, on that front. 

He’d held off driving back up to Sherman Oaks, at first, to haunt her mother’s neighborhood. Managed to stay away for all of one night, before he’d headed back, like a fucking ponce. /Just to see to it she’s alright, innit?/ he’d told himself, when he’d finally broken. And then he was back; under a sodding tree outside their fucking window, smoking up a storm and watching them pass in front of the blinds like reverse bloody ghosts till lights out, before heading off to find something dangerous to hunt. 

That had become his pattern. 

It was a good pattern. 

Well; except for the bit where all the local demons were starting to resent him for being a sodding traitor, that was.

“Sunshine’s left you, and our knight, poor thing, is left all in the dark again.”

Spike rolled over on his back and pulled a new fag to his lips, stared at the ceiling of the warehouse above his pallet. “Never left the sodding dark, Dru,” he answered curtly, and lit up.

Sitting beside him on the floor, keeping him company, because he was a worthless prat, she drew her long fingers through his hair, smiled knowingly. “He lies to himself, he does. But don’t worry, my sweet. The Sunshine never leaves for long before she returns to the underworld, remember? She’s found her king, who will make of the innocent child a Queen. For she is bound to you now.” Her tones went a little sing-songy, as happened when she was beginning to drift a bit. “‘For she hath eaten of the fruit of Erebos’…”

Spike felt the shudder rise to spread everywhere on his body, from stem to stern. This wasn’t Dru speaking in the riddles of Vision. No. She was, instead, speaking an entirely other language to him; their shared vocabulary of mythology and Classical texts which came of having been raised, more or less, in the same period. /Give or take twenty years./ 

Dru may have come from a somewhat lower social caste than he had, originally, her father having been a shop-keep for a wool merchant, but unless one was a sodding street-urchin, a person from their era knew Greek myths and the names of the Roman gods the way one knew the names and deeds of past English monarchs. Those figures, along with Aesop’s fables, a few mutated Celtic fairytales, and legendary figures like Robin Hood, had been the bedtime stories of English children, the structure on which was built the English character for centuries. 

“…You know what is meant to happen, my dear,” his sire went on, murmuring over his hair. “She returns to Demeter only for a short time, to ease her mother’s tears, and bring the bright blooms back to the frozen land, but she will ever return to warm the hearts of the lonely dead.”

Spike fought within himself to cast aside the hope that kindled in his breast at this optimistic picture. Reality, if far less attractive, was something he needed to embrace if he were to survive this extensive and relatively disheartening waiting period. Thus, he sighed and determinedly rolled his eyes at the beams over his head. “Yeah, pet, but Hades  _ stole _ Kore in that scenario.” /I  _ saved _ my bright girl. I didn’t... There was no abduction. Not as such./ He would cling to that distinction till the day he dusted, dammit. 

It was all he had. That, and he’d done right by her. He’d put her back in his chariot, taken her home to her mother, hadn’t touched her. /I did  _ right _ by her!/ “And it wasn’t winter at first, was caused by her leaving,” he went on, a bit fiercely. And, hell; he was taking refuge now in a pedantry he’d once thought lost to him, because he was sodding well flustered. “Was drought,” he continued, in spite of himself. “Burning drought, yeah? Bleedin’ eastern Mediterranean. Drought was a damn sight more worrisome a fear than a soddin’ frost no one had ever seen in their bleedin’ lives.” A drought, and dryin’ up into nothing; a helluva lot more painful than freezing. I’d freeze a thousand years and call myself lucky for it, stayin’ cold… but to never again feel the sweet kiss of rain?/

/Fuck, you’re a soddin’ nancy, still./ “That was our problem, wasn’t it?” he went on gamely. “Up north.” /Corrupted the story, was all, when we stole it. Stop bein’ a ponce./ “And when she came back, she wrought rain with her mother’s tears of joy, to relieve the land.” He snorted dryly, back on his proverbial feet. “Damn near flooded everything, no doubt. Mixed bloody blessing.” Propping himself up on one elbow, he tossed aside his half-smoked fag, watched it burn by itself over on the concrete about six feet away. “We got it all turned around, us northerners.” /I got it all turned around, thinkin’ I could change anything. Thinkin’ I could make the story mine./

Was nice of his sire to try, though, to cheer him.

Dru was unconvinced. “Carried her off, over your shoulder. Just like Hades. Old words mean different things…”

She had a point, and he knew it. ‘The Rape of Proserpina’, as done by Bernini, followed the ancient concept of the word, which had to do with the abduction itself and connoted nothing of the kind of sexual violence with which the verb had later been identified. 

/‘Queenly Demeter,’/ his mind supplied automatically; as ever, a thorough dredge of all the things his brain had never been able to unload. /‘…Bringer of seasons and giver of good gifts…’/ He hadn’t read a whit of  _ The Homeric Hymn to Demeter _ since he was approximately twenty-five—and that in human years—and here it was, chanting away by rote, and entirely without his bidding, /‘what god of heaven or what mortal man has rapt away Persephone and pierced with sorrow your dear heart?’/

/‘Rapt’/ his Classically-trained mind gabbled on, like a fool. /As in, ‘raptor’. From the Latin ‘rapere’. Seize, plunder…/ 

He had seen the original sculpture in the Galleria Borghese in Rome, back in the fifties, with Dru. Dru had giggled like a schoolgirl when they’d gone to look, after hours, having broken into the museum for a night-long date of taking in the art of the Renaissance, and dancing amongst the sculpture. Giggled at the way Proserpina had flailed about, reaching toward the sky as if begging Zeus to aid her, while Pluto, lonely and unwilling to wait, carried the jewel of spring down into his lonely darkness.

“Saw a shining girl who might bring new, bright, hopeful things to your dark circles.” Dru tapped him lightly between the eyes with one finger. “So you brought her light below. But instead of staying in your kingdom, she made you change how you treat the dead.” Her arms rose above her head, and she moved her upper body sinuously, mouth open with glee. “And now the whole of Erebos dances to new music…” Her eyes fell shut, lost in appreciation of some song only she heard. “…And the dead, long-forgetting who they were, remember, and murmur, and lift their arms in song…” Abruptly her arms dropped, and she swung on him to pin him with a gaze like green lasers. “And death is no longer a weary, monotonous thing, but a new beginning.”

/Bloody hell./ Spike sighed and looked away, because that might have been nice, yeah? But it was not to be.

Shaking his head, he pitched away a bit of debris from his blanket, worn for comfort more than out of need. “Never meant to keep her, Dru, and you know it. If she lit my darkness, it was only for a while…”

“And an act of love to let her return; to escort her out into her day.” A long-fingered hand brushed his cheek, nails dragging slightly. “But you’re not the same, anymore, are you? No more than Pluto was, once he’d seen her light.” Dru smiled sadly at him... and then, out of nowhere, her eyes clouded over. “And when you did it, you became the new king, my knight; not Daddy. And Daddy will need a new guide to lead him, won’t he, once he wins free from his prison…” Her nails tautened, sudden and shocking, on his cheek. 

/Oh, hell./ As if he could figure what the bloody hell  _ that _ meant.

He reached up, peeled her ferocious fingers from his face, cupped her hand, patted it. “It’s alright, pet. Whatever you See, let it pass…”

The brief spate of vision spent itself as swiftly as it had arrived. Her free hand rose as if nothing of moment had occurred, trailed through his hair to no doubt send it into disarray. “And the Kore, when she was brought below, left behind her sweet childhood, and became the Iron Queen; feared and loved and transformed into the only one to bring compassion to the dead, and life to the world.”

Spike sighed and closed his eyes. “I hope you’re right, Dru. It’s all I have to hope for.”

“Mummy knows. Mummy’s Hecate, my Spike. She leads the Kore down, to face her fate, then goes on to set others to their dances.”

God knew she fit the bill, his mad love. “And who are the Fates, in this scenario, pet?”

“Mustn’t ask. Doesn’t need to know.”

He shivered as he heard the abrupt, cold tones behind the words.

***

Xander had told her Angel seemed to be healing apace, and resting well. Cordy tried to believe it, tried to go home and do homework… but in the end, and in spite of her shame, she couldn’t stay away. 

Seven PM found her back at his door, knocking tentatively even as she wondered what the hell she was doing, coming back here to bother him. /I just need to know/ she told herself as she lifted her hand. And she did need to know; if he forgave her. If he might, ever. Not knowing had kept her up all night; had woken her from every snatch of fitful slumber she had managed to grab from her wakeful nightmares of his seared, blistered flesh and his exhaustion, and… 

She couldn’t handle it. Not till she asked. 

He didn’t answer her knock, and she almost wavered. But she needed to know, so…

When she pushed the door ajar, she called out. “Angel?”

Nothing. And yet, when she rounded the corner, he was there like he’d never moved; sitting on the bed with just the sheet over him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, halting near the entrance. She couldn’t help but trace the still-livid, if healing, marks all over his torso. “I just… needed to know you were okay.”

He nodded, sounding oddly unconcerned that she was there in his place while he was more or less naked. “Xander said you were pretty worried.” He sounded hoarse. Like someone who hadn’t really talked, except to scream, for a really long time, oh god.

Leaving the doorway, she headed tentatively for the center of the room. Hesitant really wasn’t the best look for Cordelia Chase. But then again, Cordelia Chase usually wasn’t responsible for someone she cared about getting tortured for days on end, either. “Look. I just wanted you to know that you don’t have to help me anymore. And that I…” He still looked so bad, and god, how did she even ask if he was…

“You don’t need…” He winced. “You don’t need to keep apologizing, Cordelia. I made a decision, knowing full well what the consequences might be. And anyway…” A faint hesitation. “I deserve every torment heaped upon me.”

Her shock at his words, the very certainty with which he’d said them, impelled her forward until she was standing right before him, a hairsbreadth from his damaged form. “That’s  _ not _ true.”

His head lifted slowly, and he blinked up at her, and oh, god, he had a big cross-mark on one cheek, just under his eye; they’d just missed his  _ eye _ , what happened to a vampire if his eye got burned out? Would it heal, or would he be blind forever?

“Angel,” she whispered, and without thought, reached out to lightly caress the healing burn.

He winced, and she hissed, started back, withdrawing her hand. He caught it, though, pressed it to his scarred cheek. “No,” he told her, and shook his head slightly. “I… You didn’t hurt me. I just feel like I don’t deserve your compassion.”

She blinked at him, amazed, and for lack of anything better to do, plunked herself down next to him on the bed. “You… You’re  _ nuts _ , you know that? You got  _ tortured _ for me, you idiot! Why wouldn’t you deserve my compassion?”

His eyes fell shut, though he kept her hand, held gently to his damaged cheek. It was as if her words burned him more than the cross had done. “I’ve done so much wrong, in this world,” he murmured. “The torture… I deserve it and far more.” His eyes reopened then, to focus, candid and sad on hers. “I don’t deserve your… Your feelings for me. At best I was supposed to help you, not…”

Cordy rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Well, that’s my problem, right? Anyway, right now we have bigger fish to fry than my one-sided crush on a two-hundred-year-old guy. Between the mess you’re in, and that Master bastard—because you know I’m gonna stake him for doing this to you…”

“It’s not one-sided.”

She ground to a halt, thrown. “Huh?” she asked, uncertain what the hell to do with his confession.

His eyes on hers were pointed, self-deprecating. “If it was one-sided, you think I’d’ve done something that foolish? Exposed myself, for you? C’mon, Cordy. I’ve always been great at taking care of myself first.”

Something warm flashed up through Cordy, definitely screwing up her priorities of the moment. “Well, that’s nice,” she answered, and managed a pleased smile. “Nice to know I’ve still got it.”

He answered her with a faintly approving grin; one of those rare ones that lit his eyes. “Oh, you’ve got it.”

His hand dropped back to his lap. She didn’t lower hers, instead finding herself spreading her fingers on his cheek, caressing them over the parts of his face that weren’t burnt, while she watched his eyes. His expression went through about fifty different emotions; amusement shifting to surprise, then wariness, then regret, and then… “Cordy, look. Whatever else is going on, you’re sixteen, and I’m…”

She shook her head. “Seventeen. Though that probably doesn’t make much difference to you. I’m not a shy little virgin or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. If this happens between us, I’m not gonna freak out on you. That ship sailed a year ago, with Rick Silva, after the homecoming game. Though, now,” she allowed, “I kinda wish I’d’ve picked someone with a little more style.” She smiled faintly. “To be fair, slaying’s kinda put the crimp on my style since then, socially-speaking. Which sucks, since let me tell you; slaying definitely gets a girl wound up…”

Angel’s expression was running the gamut again; from surprise to regret again, to unwilling amusement, and back to an odd compassion. “Anyway, I’d’ve thought I’d have more experience under my belt by now in that department, but then I got Called, and…” She shrugged it off. “Life happens, I guess.”

Angel nodded and looked away, down into his lap. “We shouldn’t even be discussing this, you know. Whatever you have or haven’t done, I’m still a two-hundred-year-old vampire, and you’re…”

“A girl who could die tomorrow,” she interrupted firmly, “and needs to live as much as she can while she still can.” She thought that was one of many very good points in the ‘this is different’ department. “Also, a girl with…” She halted, seeking the words. “What did Willow call it? Some kind of ‘ancient force’ in me. So at least a part of me is really old. Maybe even older than you…” 

He raised his head to blink at her again, in startlement. She didn’t let him break in. “Look. I can get you begging off because you’re in pain. I’m good with that. But don’t say no to me because you think I’m not up to it, because that’s my decision.”

He frowned, as if he half-agreed with her and was half-afraid to. “Not according to the current laws,” he reminded her. His tones informed her, though, that he wasn’t sure he agreed with said laws. Which, she kinda understood, since her exchange student, Sven, dumb as a rock though he had been, had informed her that age of consent was wildly different in a lot of countries over in Europe and other places. In his country, Sweden or whatever, it was like fifteen or some crazy thing. It was apparently sixteen in the UK or whatever, so apparently a lot of the world thought the US was straight-up nuts with the whole eighteen hangup. 

Angel was originally from, like, Ireland or whatever, so he probably thought the laws in the US were bunk, even if he wasn’t from a time period when people probably married their fourteen-year-old daughters off to fifty-year-old men. But she supposed he got points for trying to be good and think of her wellbeing and all that stuff. 

Also, he was operating off of incorrect information. Time to educate him. “Yeah, well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m turning eighteen in a few months. I’m one of those summer kids who get caught in the cusp between school years. You’re either way older than the rest of the class, or way younger when you’re born in the summer.” Which had led, in her case, to being teased for half of her elementary-school-life by people who’d assumed she’d been held back, which had in turn forced her to become an academic powerhouse in order to prove to all and sundry that she was in no way an idiot, because no way could an overachiever like her ever be imagined to be someone’s held-back-kid, right? 

Just one of the many drivers in Cordelia Chase’s need to exceed. “Technically I was supposed to be in the class ahead of everyone else I’m with, but Mom put me in a bunch of baby beauty pageants when I was little. And because I made it all the way to the finals for Little Miss California 1985, Mom’s priorities got a little mixed up. She wasn’t about to pull me out when I was in the running for twenty-five K and that big first-place trophy…” To this day, Mom still couldn’t look at that first runner-up trophy, kept her eyes averted whenever she stepped into Cordy’s room. “She totally gambled on me winning, and she kinda missed the deadline to get me into kindergarten that year. So I didn’t start kindergarten till the next September. Which is technically illegal, but she got away with it by sending for a bunch of preschool books and paying for a tutor while I did more pageants.” 

Such a long time ago, but Cordy still remembered the abrupt realization, when she’d finally entered school with the other kids, that she was different. That she was some weird social outcast, because all of the social imprinting she’d ever gotten had come from competitions. She remembered her mother telling her,  _ “If those kids at school can’t relate to you, Cordelia, it means they’re not good enough for you. Just hold your head high and walk away. Make them come to you.” _

It was lonely on top, but she’d learned how to be there from infancy.

Shrugging it off, Cordy smiled slightly, eyes on Angel’s right cheek. “My birthday’s only a month earlier than the cutoff, so it’s no big. Most of the kids who have summer birthdays who turn a year older, like me, in this class have them right before school starts, too. I just have mine while everyone else is on break.” She lifted her eyes to his and nailed him to the wall with a flat, pointed gaze. “So tell me. Do you think I’ll be suddenly ten times more capable of telling you I’m sure I want to go to bed with you in eight months, than I am now, because I’ll have one more candle on my cake?”

Angel turned his head away. “A lot can happen in eight months. But no. I don’t think eighteen’s a magic number or anything. I just worry that you’ll feel like you’ve made a mistake. And I…” His eyes were back on his hands. “I’ve spent over a hundred years practicing a lot of the wrong things in… In bed,” he told her, candidly, while still avoiding her gaze. “I wouldn’t want it to be a bad experience for you, whether you’ve done it before or not. So I figure, better if you… Better if we..”

She huffed out a breath, as usual already way over his self-deprecating stalling. “Oh, for God’s sake, Angel; you either want to or you don’t. We can take a rain check if you do but it’s a bad time, since obviously you’re a mess. I get that, and it’s not like this needs to happen now, just because it finally came up. If you don’t, no harm, no foul. But if you’re worried about whether you’d be a good lover… that’s up to you. You either pay attention and make it good, or you don’t.” /Seriously, jeez./ Sometimes she wondered at herself, that she found this guy attractive. He could be such a dope. Salty goodness aside. “And besides,” and here she shot him a pointed half-smile meant to tease him into submission, “it’s not like I’m loaded down with experience. I’ve done this about one and a half times. It’s kind of nice to know there are things we’d be figuring out together. It kind of puts us on a more even keel.” She shrugged it off, unwilling to let him know she would be feeling a little vulnerable, despite her confident outward demeanor. “Weird thing to say, when I’m talking to a guy who should definitely know more than I do about…”

He kissed her. It was a surprise, considering the way he’d been acting, but she’d take it. She kissed him back with alacrity, and it was definitely a good kiss. It boded well for other things. They had chemistry for one—not that she didn’t already know they would—starting with a rush of sudden courage, and a surge of heat that she could definitely say was worth talking about, though ending in a brief, unexpected stutter of hesitancy. 

And then he was pulling away, out of nowhere, and something nicked her mouth, and… “Oh,” she realized, and reached up to touch his cheek again, as he turned away. Forced his face back to hers. “Oh, stop it, jeez. Look at me.”

“This is a bad idea.” He was lisping, of course, around his fangs, and refused to turn his head.

With some serious Slayer-strength, she got him swiveled around to face her, stretched up, kissed his fanged out mouth lightly on the lips. “Stop being an idiot. Most guys are primitive monsters when they get turned on, okay? You’re just really, really obvious about it.” She shot him a coy smile. “I’ll take it as a compliment.”

He exhaled hard, sounding reproachful. Which was funny, since Angel seldom breathed in any expressive way. The most she had ever seen him breathe, aside from when he inhaled to speak, was when he did that weird, open-mouthed huffy thing that Giles had later informed was, based on her lessons on vampire anatomy in the massive text that was her Slayer bible, an exercise in sifting odors via glands in the roof of the mouth. ‘Parsing the atmosphere for pheromones and scent particles, similar to the flehman response found in ungulates and felines. The scent particles enter through the holes through which the fangs descend, when the fangs are not evident, to reach the vomeronasal organ (also responsible, via the large sounding chamber it creates in the vampire’s altered skull, for the vampire’s ability to ‘rumble’ and ‘roar’). When fangs are evident, the scents travel up under the teeth and into the VNO along cavities in the exposed and roughened roof of the mouth’ (see fig. 10, from Gilbert’s woodcuts of vivisection 325). 

She wondered if he was scenting anything in particular from her right now. He should be. She was feeling more than a little… excited at the prospect of maybe going to bed with him, to be real. They’d spent a solid almost-year flirting, by this point, and dancing around this thing. It was put up or shut up time. 

Not that she thought it was off the table if he said no, tonight, considering his physical state, but at least the subject was finally fricking out in the open! “So, anyway…” Reaching up, she traced her fingers lightly over his lips, his brows. He stared at her, and his vampire features faded out under her gentle caress. Leaning up again, she kissed him; slow and deep and accepting… and encouraging. “What do you think, big guy? Are you up to it, or should we postpone this conversation till you’ve had a few more days to heal?”

“I…” He was already kissing her back; and this time, he didn’t fang out. 

She slid her hands into his hair. It was, after all, a part of him that wasn’t damaged. She’d have to be gentle with the rest of him. “I figure as long as you’re good and mostly stay still…” She ran her hands down to his cool shoulders and gave him an exceedingly gentle push toward the head of the bed. “…We’ll probably be fine. This time around, anyway. I expect more active participation from you once you’re all healed up.”

His chill hands were sliding up under her shirt, now, and this was definitely going to happen. She wondered what it would be like, considering he wasn’t, well, warm. It sounded… different. Maybe kinda fun. “Cordy,” he whispered, sounding both pained and exalted.

“Present and accounted for,” she answered, and smiled at him. “As long as you are too, this is gonna be just fine.”

“Oh, I’m present,” he whispered as she pulled her halter over her head, and ran his hands up along her sides, looking awed. “I’m definitely present.”

“Good. Maybe you should do something about that.”

He did, and then she did… and she absolutely did not remember, in the slightest, the warning Ms. Calendar had given her. Not even a little bit.

Not till later, anyway. 

***

She just wanted to see him. That was all. It had been three days, and she just wanted to… yanno, stop by. See how he was doing. How things were going for him. /Whether he’s even there anymore./ 

“I’ll just drop off our invitation, and then come home, okay?”

Mom looked anxious. Which, Buffy guessed she understood, since the last time she’d gone out of her mom’s sight, she’d ended up nearly dying in a fire after fighting a massive vamp-nest, and spent the better part of a year tied down in an asylum. “I’ll be back before you know it, Mom. Oh, but, um…” She shot her mother a winsome look. “Can I, uh, have bus money, though?”

Mom, who had been all freaky about it every time she left for the day to go to work, winced. “I guess I could drive you…”

“No, it’s cool. I don’t wanna make you wait. And I can handle myself…”

Mom winced again. “It’s just…”

“You worry. I know. But I  _ am _ almost seventeen…” Which still felt weird, considering Buffy honestly felt like she’d skipped over most of sixteen. She had lost literally  _ months _ of her life, but real was real. She’d be seventeen in less than two months. She should be able to hack a trip to Long Beach and back on her lonesome. /I mean, you two were cool with leaving me alone in the condo for almost a week, and that was ten  _ months _ ago!/ 

Granted, when her parents had taken that chance, she’d promptly gotten herself expelled for arson, but still. The principle stood. 

“Okay,” Mom gave in finally, but her eyes were shooting lasers as she dug into her purse, all pointed mom-messaging. “But I want you back here before I get home. And don’t think all this fancy freedom of movement of yours is gonna last, Missy. You’re back in school as soon as next semester starts.”

“I know, I know,” Buffy answered, willing despite the weirdness-factor of feeling oddly too old for school. Too… worldly, somehow. Mom had been in planning with her to get her back into the rhythms of regular life, and the better part of said planning had involved discussions with the principal of the nearby high school about how to get her re-enrolled and in the swing of that student-y life. She could tell Mom was trying to get her involved in all that—to get her buy-in and everything. To have her involved from the ground-floor and stuff; which was weird, honestly, talking to the new principal about what that would look like, and trying to counter his wariness because of her record and all that. 

Mom was all over emphasizing how great a student she’d been until ‘the one incident’. It was cool how her mother totally had her back. “It’s not her fault, what happened. She has had her treatment and is starting over. It can’t be held against her.”

The principal had seemed kind of waffle-y, but he’d nodded, eyes turning to Buffy’s. “Well, as long as you keep your head down from now on. I don’t like troublemakers, but I do like students who enjoy healthy extracurriculars and who pull a steady GPA.”

“Then that’s me,” Buffy had chirped, going for cheerful, chipper, and cheerleader-y. The three C’s. “I’m back on the straight and narrow.” /Or something. Since I definitely don’t know how much I wanna do that slaying thing right now, between watching Merrick die, fighting my ex-schoolmates, and knowing that not all vampires are assholes./

To be fair, though, she also didn’t know how she felt anymore about some of her previous extracurriculars. Part of her wanted to just go back, pick up cheerleading again, maybe volleyball, try out for first string in hopes of making varsity next year… Maybe pretend none of it had ever happened. And… Part of her knew that would never work. 

Too much had changed, and could never go back. Heck; frankly, every time she tried, she kept seeing a workout room, and intent blue eyes watching her with a low, rumbly voice exhorting her, sending chills down her spine and urging her on, and… “Maybe I’ll take up martial arts.”

Mom had blinked in surprise. “Martial arts? Instead of cheer squad?”

“I dunno. It feels right. A lot of crazies out there.”

Mom’s expression caught on the barbs of recognition, headed straight for worried territory. 

Luckily, instead of taking this aside with concern, the principal had merely nodded. “These days, I tend to think all young women ought to take personal safety classes. Nothing wrong with learning a martial art… as long as you use it correctly.” Tapping her file on his desk, he’d nodded conditional acceptance. “Well. Miss Summers, Mrs. Summers…”

Anyway, part of her was ready to just go back to school, put her head down, try to get back into the swing of ‘normal’ again. Lose herself in sports to blow off some steam, the uneasiness always filling her. Try to make some new friends. Dance off the anxiety. Mom didn’t make enough money anymore for her to do as many classes and things outside of school—ice skating, ballet, yadda—even with Dad paying child support. Maybe she’d have to help pitch in, now she was of age. Get a job on the weekends or something, if she wanted to do more than the martial art—which, Dad could pay for, because he should do something!—and then she wouldn’t feel so jittery all the time. 

Maybe then she could feel like she… fit into her life.

Part of her, though, didn’t even want to. It didn’t feel right. Didn’t feel like her life. 

None of it did, anymore. 

It took her two and a half hours on the Metro line, plus a lot of incidental hoofing it, but Buffy eventually made it down to the waterfront area where Spike had his little territory. At first she wasn’t sure, from this exterior—and daylit—perspective, which one contained his nest. But there were, Spike had informed her during their shopping trip, certain markers to look out for. She employed that information to good effect now. /Where would a vamp go, around here?/ And the answer was, to the warehouse that had the best exits, was the least cut off, was the least trafficked, had the best escape routes. Also, probably best to look out for whichever one was clearly being avoided by all and sundry of the homeless human set.

Once she felt she’d cornered the right general vicinity, she went with her instincts, the way he’d taught her to do it; closed her eyes, breathed deep, and  _ felt _ her way. 

She amazed herself when she realized it had worked. She could feel the buzz of vampires; there, just under her skin, and originating off to the left, in that one warehouse over there between the gray cinderblock one and the thin-looking one made of corrugated tin. Right there, in the tan one with the peeling paint. Which, now that she thought about it, looked about right, though she had never seen it from the outside in the light. 

She did a brief little knock and stepped inside, holding the door ajar and feeling weirdly uncertain about her welcome. “Hello? Spike?”

No answer, which… It was still early evening. He could be asleep, she supposed. He was, after all, a vampire. “Anybody home?”

Nothing… and despite the long-ass journey to get there, she almost turned around and left rather than heading further in. /What if he doesn’t want me here anymore? What if I’m bothering him?/ Her nerve wavered a little on her. /What if he was totally glad to be rid of me, and I’m gonna bug him by coming back so soon, and…/

_ “If you decide to look me up, pet, I won’t be put out by it.” _

She firmed up, bolstered by the memory of intense blue eyes focused on her with that odd, waiting look. /I just want to check in on him. That’s all. He always seems so stressed. Hopefully that’s gotten better since I left. Hopefully he’s… okay and everything./

She just needed to see him. Talk a little. No big.

Pulling in a deep breath, she stepped the rest of the way in, closed the heavy metal door quietly behind her. Moved further into the building, peeked hesitantly around a few corners. No minions were in evidence—she’d never even gotten the skinny on those guys’ names—no Drusilla, definitely no Spike. The place seemed echoingly empty. And come to think of it, she hadn’t seen his massive old car out front, and what if he’d left? /Did you just bail the second you got rid of me? Did you…/

Out of nowhere, her vamp-sense went through the roof. But in a weird way; a sort of confused-feeling tingle, like the vamp sneaking up on her was both older than Spike, but somehow not as strong. Which seemed a contradiction in terms, but then that was what happened when… 

When it was his sire, who was damaged in some bizarre way that had never been fully explained to her. And there she was, standing right in front of Buffy in her full, totally random glory, all dark hair and weird dress and long nails and very, very strange eyes. “You’ve come back…” the tall woman murmured, sounding oddly elated. Her hands rose, weaving toward the ceiling, as if she were giving thanks or something. 

Buffy felt a sudden splash of relief in her own right. If Drusilla was here, that meant that Spike was. He’d never leave his sire alone for too long. “Yeah, just for a visit. Is Spike…”

“But then, Persephone always does…” 

“Um, okay, what? My name’s Buffy…” /What the hell?/

“It is time, then.” The woman seemed to be speaking not to her, but to something above both their heads. Then her eyes, no shit, went almost fuzzy, and she began a little hip-shimmying waltz around Buffy’s body. 

/Okay, crazy./ Spike had never said the woman he’d been with since the dark ages or whatever was nuts. 

Turning with the bizarre vamp, Buffy watched her like she’d watch a circling shark. There was something really not right about Spike’s longtime girlfriend. /What even?/

“Knew I could count on you. I am ready, Slayer.”

/Okay, seriously. What  _ is _ this?/ 

Whatever it was, Buffy had no time for it. “Listen. If Spike’s back there somewhere, I need to talk to h…”

“Be in me.” And, out of nowhere, frighteningly intense green eyes had snapped sharply to hers, were focused on her, and Buffy found herself staring unblinkingly into Drusilla’s widening gaze. Her deep, green eyes seemed to whirl, to spin, until it was almost impossible to look away, to…

“Be in me, and I in you. We are  _ one _ , Slayer…” Her voice, hypnotic and soothing, seemed to be coming down a long tunnel, now, from some impossible distance. “Be in me, be  _ with _ me, and it will all be right…”

It felt like… Like when they gave her the one shot, back at the hospital, and nothing mattered anymore. Everything was becoming more and more remote; like she was watching herself from above, and soon it would all be happening to someone else.

She couldn’t tear her eyes away. She was distantly aware that her mouth was hanging open.

“Be inside me. Inside me, soon, and you and I will both be free…”

***

Spike felt it when it happened; the sudden surging of power pouring back into his sire. He’d been on his way back home anyway, and slammed out of the DeSoto and into the warehouse at top speed…

Only to find Dru inside; bent over the Slayer, eyes yellow and feral over her limp form. 

He went mental then, long before he could recognize in anything but the most primitive part of his brain that the girl’s heartbeat remained steady, that Dru had already licked her closed. That she had controlled it; that she’d in no way done it in a way as was meant to do the girl in.

He’d been unable to see or hear any of that in the moment. All he’d seen, smelt, heard in that instant was Buffy’s blood; filling the chamber with the delectable scent of her, spread everywhere on her throat and Dru’s lips. 

Sire or not, he’d lost his fucking mind. 

They’d squared off, Dru dropping the chit to the floor to close with him. Even a Slayer’d be a bit weakened, after having been lowered a pint or so, and thralled a bit besides. Seeing her like that, all sprawled out between them on the filthy floor, had made something shut right the fuck off inside Spike’s brain; something that might have been the last remains of his own gear for self-preservation. Because right now, everything he felt from his sire said that she was exactly that again. Powerful, strong; far more so than he, and as much again the monster she had been in the moment she had made him, the moment he had risen from the soil, a confused and hopeful fledge. Every bit the fiend she’d been for a hundred and fifty years, before that filthy fucking mob had done their worst to her.

He didn’t stand a sodding chance.

Dru had him flat on his back with claw-marks rending his face and throat open before he could say ‘cuck’, and, hissing, was over Buffy’s still form and heading for the exit, where the setting sun had only just left the doorway. “Bad dog will stay here and tend Sunshine. Mummy’s all better now. Time she went to Daddy. Daddy needs her. He’s all clean of the spark and ready for a nice dance, bum-ba-bum-bum-baaaaaaaaammmmmmm…”

And she was gone; vanished through the door, leaving him wounded and weaving in confusion and shock.

/Holy, holy fuck./

He fell, more than knelt, beside Buffy’s too-pale form, closed his eyes, pulled her body to him. And because it was needful, he did the most tormenting thing he could imagine, in punishment for having gotten the poor chit in this situation in the first bloody place. All his fault anyway, for being a selfish twat.

He licked the Slayer entirely clean, fighting as he did to keep his own demon in check as exquisite taste of her still-warm, impossibly bright, perfect Slayer’s blood flooded in to overwhelm his every sense. Licked it from her throat, her neck, her shoulder, the upper slope of her young breast, though he studiously avoided the fang-marks. He’d possibly not manage to avoid asserting himself, should he touch those, which would only compound the damage she’d been dealt. Smelling another on her, even if the mark had not been made as a sign of ownership? 

No. He couldn’t manage it. Not just yet. He was far too emotional in this particular instant. Best to stick with housekeeping, and leave it at that. She’d come to entirely, in a moment, and at least be clean enough not to be horrified. As it was, there’d be blood on her blouse, round the collar, and little he could do about that. 

She’d be shaky as well, but there were still snacks and things in what had been her room. He’d get her some of those; and in the meantime, what he’d cleaned from her… Hopefully it’d be enough to heal him of his cuts quickly, Slayer blood being what it was. The sodding things were that deep. A beautiful kind of logic in that, as well. Between wounding him, and harming the girl… 

Dru had wanted to ensure she’d had a little lead-time, before he could follow. Not to mention… /Fuck./ If his sire—or, he supposed, Miss Edith—had wanted vengeance for his inconstancy and lack of action in the last month, she’d had it. 

He hated to think what it would look like when he took Buffy home to her mother, punctures in her neck and her blouse bloodied; but he’d do it. /All my soddin’ fault, anyway. The whole fucking mess./ 

He’d get her home, then go after Dru before whatever the hell she was on about became an even worse fucking debacle.

* * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Spike credited the bits he and Dru were semi-quoting in here, which will be an ongoing theme in his head for a bit. _The Homeric Hymn to Demeter_ is serious mytho-religious material for yours truly, so it's been fun to apply it to the current story situation. Not to mention... I think our former Classics nerd would automatically jump there, himself, given a little provocation.  
  
Where we go from here? Well, we shall see.  
(Also, big props to wolf_shadoe, y'all, for getting this one ready for us before holidaying!)


	12. Universal Rules

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we've made it to Part 3 (aka Part The Final) of this story! Woot!
> 
> Threads will begin to converge, as we head into this portion of festivities, characters will be drawn together... and the story will reach what one hopes will be an odd equilibrium that bodes well for the future.
> 
> RE Angel's soul-loss... I definitely do not ascribe to that happening just from his getting laid/ certainly do not believe it happens every time he has sex. I actually DESPISE that conflation in the show. 
> 
> I also definitely don't think he lost his soul for the same reasons, with Buffy, as he would with Cordelia... but I do have extremely well-thought-out reasons for that happening in this encounter. We'll just get to them later on, because I couldn't fit them in this chapter (though, their interactions might hint at them, in here). So bear with me.
> 
> Note: this chapter's un-beta'd, so any and all typos, issues, et al are mine.

** Pt. 3: Re-Order That Universe **

**  
** ** Sec.12C: Universal Rules **

“You know what’s ironic?” Buffy murmured from the passenger seat of the DeSoto.

Spike felt his hands tighten on the steering wheel till his knuckles went white, just from the weakened sound of her. “What’s that, luv?” he managed, somewhat evenly, but there was an edge to his voice even to his own ears.

Fuck; how had he allowed this to happen?

“I was actually gonna ask you, when you got back, if there was a way to do it without her killing me.” She sounded amused. Fucking  _ amused _ . “In case it might help you, you know. Since you have so much to deal with." 

His head jerked over to stare at her, in spite of himself, till the flesh of his neck pulled at his healing gouges. His face burned, his throat... and awe filled him. /Fucking Christ, Buffy./ Did she have to be so fucking beguiling, so straightforward and blunt, hiding nothing? He could trust her to speak her mind, be flat-out about what she thought, which was bloody refreshing after decades of sussing meanings from a walking, talking augury. 

/Shut it, you disloyal fuck./

And yet, it was christing difficult not to be glad as hell of Buffy’s continued presence, and to be sodding angry at Dru, even though he knew precisely what had driven his sire to act in the way she had; out of sheer desperation. And, fuck, why hadn’t he thought of her sodding thrall? 

What a fucking wally he’d been! /You’re a bleeding lackbrained nit, and you deserve nothing less than what you’ve got right now, which is a life spent alone, pining after a fucking child; you need to drop her off with her sodding mother, go after Dru and fix this, get your head on straight, and stop being a damned ninny, for chrissake…/

He’d been too bleeding idiotically distracted, from the start. Hell; the only reason he hadn’t been about when it had all gone down, to ensure this fucking disaster hadn’t happened, was because he’d been coming back from the bleeding bar. Because he’d been drinking too much of late—as if it sodding helped—after which he always ended up right back in front of the bloody Slayer’s former flat, after seeing to Dru’s evening meal, and fuck… /Why weren’t you  _ there?  _ What the bloody hell were you  _ thinking _ , Spike!/

It wasn’t Dru’s fault. She’d only meant to see to her own wellbeing, because no other bastard had been willing to do anything about it on her behalf. Because she’d grown tired of waiting, and of being put off. She’d seen a chance to act on her own welfare; wanted to be strong, to be well again, and who the fuck could bloody blame her for that?

He had let his sire down, was what it was. He had long since chosen the Slayer over her, and Dru had known it. She’d had to fend for herself. No way he could blame her in the slightest for what she’d ended in doing.

He couldn’t blame Buffy either. It wasn’t the chit’s fault. He’d been too friendly, too welcoming. Of course she’d come prancing right back to see him, her judgment all askew about the dangers of sodding vampires because of him.

He’d done this. He’d made a choice long ago, just hadn’t wanted to admit it to himself, and now he was reaping what he’d sown. He was a selfish sod and a pansy and, fuckitall, now…

He was so bleeding lost in his thoughts, his idiot morass of feelings, he was startled when Buffy spoke again; this time in a small voice. “Are you mad at me?”

/Oh, Christ./ Now the chit thought he was brassed at her, when he was more brassed at his sodding self and the situation than anything. “Bloody hell.” He pulled over hard, onto the shoulder till the bald tires of the DeSoto crunched in the gravel, and turned to her Caught her chin in his hand, forced her gaze up to meet his own. “No. Listen. Fuck. I’m not brassed at you, luv. You didn’t do one bloody thing wrong. Never think that. I’m just a surly bastard, because I’m bloody well angry with myself…”

“Why?” She sounded bewildered by this admission.

It burst out of him on a fine edge of frustration. “Because I’m a right guilty tosser, who shouldn’t have let any of this shite happen, yeah? But it hasn’t a thing one to do with you, alright?” 

She pulled her face away from his fingers and looked down. “Yeah, well, if I’d stayed away, stayed home where you put me, maybe you wouldn’t be dealing with…”

“Oh, fuck this.” He slammed a hand down hard on his steering wheel, wanting to rage, to throw bottles till they shattered all round him, and maybe the glass might stab him through the heart. “God bloody damn it!” 

Wouldn’t you know, the mad chit didn’t even jump when he did it?

Fed up of all of it, he swung on her again. “Dammit, Buffy; I said, didn’t I, that you could come see me any bleedin’ time? You’re only guilty of coming round for a chat. Nothing wrong with that! I’m just the selfish sod who left the door open, because I’d like nothing better than to keep you! And, I’m the bastard who didn’t give Dru what she needed, so that in the end she victimized you to make herself strong again.” He turned away again, unable to face her. Christ, he was so bleeding trapped. It was unconscionable; the whole fucking thing. And at the centre of it, at every turn, was him, being an bloody incompetent prick. 

“For what it’s worth,” Buffy murmured to the side of his no doubt strained face, “I don’t think you did anything wrong either. I think you were just trying to make everything work all at once. And, I guess, probably it couldn’t. There were too many moving parts.”

Groaning, Spike swiped a palm, still aching from striking his poor, abused car, over his eyes. “Hell. What the bloody fuck am I gonna do? Now Dru’s off to find her sodding ‘daddy’…” That last came out viciously, despite their recent reidentification from lovers to friends. It still hurt, that Dru had wanted, would always want sodding Angelus over all that he’d tried to give her. Would cleave to Angelus over and above a century’s devotion, but it was what it was. “…And I’ve to get you back to your mum all fucking cut up, explain that somehow, and then…”

“Who’s her daddy?” Buffy asked curiously, apparently unmoved by his furious little bit of diatribe.

/Might ask that, since it was never me./ “Name’s Angelus,” he spat, and shrugged. “The vamp who made her.” /In more sodding ways than one./ “And,” he sighed, giving in to lean his head back against the seat behind him, “in absence of her ability to be anything like a proper sire, he more or less made me, as well. Bastard that he is.”

He could feel Buffy’s eyes on him, avoided her gaze for as long as he could. “Anyroad, pet, best get you home and face the music, and then I’m off to Sunnyhell…”

Buffy’s gaze never wavered. “Isn’t that where you said the master of your line is? The one who could push you around if he wanted to? Make you do anything he wants? And where this other Slayer is?” She sounded deeply curious, now, laced with a bit of concern, for his sake.

“Yeah,” he answered on a stepped-on exhale. Christ, he felt exhausted all of a bloody sudden. What the hell was he going to do once he got to that sodding mess of a burgh, anyway? How was he to get Dru away from playing fuckhole to Angelus long enough to get out of there without running into any of Nest’s flunkies—and no doubt getting himself dragged down into the sonofabitch’s hidey-hole for some constructive flogging while he was at it? /Hell, after the way I left last time, I’ll be lucky not to end up being dusted for my pains./

He drummed his fingertips on the steering wheel, feeling contrary, unwilling. /I could just leave her to it.../ 

The traitorous, heretical thought rose in him, shocking him with its ease and clarity, and what the bloody hell was he even  _ thinking? _ If he left Dru to Angelus’ small mercies, the ponce’d only damage her more! No doubt drive her even further round the bloody twist, and think it fucking amusing! She wanted to be with him, of course. He was her sire. All vamps wanted to be with their sires… /Me, case in bloody point./ It was a matter of simple mathematics. But sometimes being so wasn’t the best thing for sodding anyone.

“Maybe I’ll go with you,” Buffy murmured thoughtfully, shocking him out of his roiling silence. 

His head shot up from the back of the seat, and he stared at her in amazement. “What the bloody fuck, Slayer?”

“Well,” she answered, meeting his gaze evenly, and speaking as if her words made all the bleeding sense in the world (and as if she weren’t sitting in the close cab of a car with a thoroughly enraged and edgy, hundred-and-twenty-year-old vampire), “it’d be kinda cool to meet another Slayer, for one thing. For another, the only reason Drusilla’s in the pickle she’s in is because I came back, right? So that she could bite me? So I’m kinda responsible too…”

He found himself staring at her with an admixture of awe and horror, laced with not a little disgust at what he’d done to the chit. “Oh, hell, Slayer, that’s just sheer sophistry. If you wanna meet another Slayer, that’s all fine and dandy, but don’t put it on yourself, what happened in that bleedin’ warehouse…”

“What’s sophis…”

“Sophistry?”

“Yeah. It sounds like a kind of shampoo.”

“Christ, we need to get you back in school.” He grabbed hold of the shifter of his car, put her into gear. “I need to get you back to your mum. None of this gallivanting off to Sunnydale bullshit…”

Buffy exhaled huffily at him. “Look. I can’t start school again till next semester anyway. Heck, I’m lucky I can go back at all; that I don’t have to homeschool, or get a GED or something, after spending a semester in the nuthouse, and then just vanishing for half of this one.” 

He winced at the latter, then told himself to buck up, that he shouldn’t ought to give a damn whether anyone finished sodding school or no. That he was an evil fucking vampire, for fucksake, not a swotty schoolboy anymore. /And school is just shite anyway. Especially in this hole of a country!/ 

Still, the regret and faint desolation in her voice stung like hell, damn it.

“And, like, okay. It’s another week and a half even till Thanksgiving—which, by the way, Mom says you have an invite…” She gabbled on while he remained frozen, gaping at her in stunned amazement and so lost on that last breezy detail that he almost missed most of the rest of her exegesis. “So here’s the deal. I’ll go with you to help you round up your girlfriend and fight off this Angelus guy, and maybe this master of yours. Because no offense, but I kinda like you not hypnotized into doing his bidding, or whatever. And then, after you’re out of there and safe, I’ll go home again.”

“Slayer,” he began, weakly, thrown as hell and almost incapable of speech.

“Exactly,” she pointed out, before he could really get down to it and fight her on the matter. Which really brought all his arguments to a halt, since she had rather a bloody point, didn’t she? She was a sodding Slayer, damnitall. She’d feel drawn to do something about a vamp on the loose and biting; especially a mad one. 

Hell, maybe she even felt a bit of a kinship with Dru, because of the mad bit, for all he sodding knew. 

“If it makes you feel any better,” she told him softly, eyes front, “I’ll call my mom once we’re there to let her know something went down and I had to bail for a coupla days, to help you out of a jam, so she won’t worry…”

He exhaled gustily, giving in. Possibly half because he was honestly not a little terrified to face Joyce Summers right now, with her daughter all over blood and with a couple of sodding holes in her neck. “Bloody, bloody, fucking Christ, she’s gonna think I’m the worst goddamn influence on you there ever was…”

Buffy shrugged and turned back to face the obscured windscreen. “Probably, but we’ll deal with that after we get your sire back from vampire hell. Deal?”

Spike groaned, but finally pulled off the shoulder to merge them back into freeway-bound traffic. He wasn’t exactly in a position to fight her on this, after all. Fuck, knowing this chit, she might just follow after him on the bleeding bus or something, if he didn’t take her along, now she knew where the other Slayer was; or maybe just to do him a good turn. Since she seemed to think she owed him one, or some bloody thing. /Best if I know where she is, and can keep a damned eye on her. Keep her hell and gone from Nest; much less fucking Angelus./ 

“Deal,” he muttered as he navigated through the cars pelting north toward Van Nuys. “Sodding hell…” Her plan had the benefit that it got him out of facing down her mother, probably, until her throat was healed of its marks entirely, the way Slayer healing went. Dru really had gone far easier on her than he had ever seen his sire do on anyone. She’d barely more to the scars beyond the holes themselves, which was a wonder. /Useful, that./ Though, why his sire had been so careful was a matter for some contemplation. 

Not now, though. He had far too much to ponder when it came to the current moment, and the chit in his car, how her being there might alter matters. /Hell, her presence might just get me out of Sunnyhell intact, without getting m’self dusted by Nest, while I’m about it./ He’d no plan for that eventuality, before. He’d been playing this thing by ear, like he did every other bloody thing. 

Having a Slayer on his side would definitely even the odds a bit. /Granted I can feed her up and get her back into shape before we land, and have to do anything sodding strenuous./ 

He closed his eyes briefly as they made up enough speed to match the rest of mad California traffic. “Cheers,” he managed, feeling a bit choked up in spite of himself. He shouldn’t think twice about this. He shouldn’t have any compunctions at all about stealing her away. Evil and that, but… This was Buffy. “I appreciate any help you’re willing to give.”

Buffy nodded, still staring straight ahead. “Well, I mean, I’m not happy she bit me, but I can get down with saving a couple that’s been together for over a hundred years. That’s… all romantic and stuff…” And she blushed as she looked away.

/Oh, hell./ She was building this up in her head into some sort of bright and shining storybook thing. 

‘Course, if he disabused her of that notion, who the bloody hell knew where she’d take it, so maybe best to let her go on thinking… “Yeah, well… it’s going to be the hell of a convention,” he muttered, and skipped over a lane to make for the 405.

Her eyes on him analyzed, as if she were wondering what he was and wasn’t saying. He shivered under her too-wise-for-her-years gaze.

Damn the girl.

***

He was acting so  _ weird _ . Almost… squirrely, as they drove on into the night, west out of the Valley and up onto Ventura Highway. Drumming his steering wheel, barely talking, fidgeting, playing with his lighter like he was dying to smoke, but wasn’t lighting up out of deference to her presence. Which… It was nighttime, he wouldn’t hotbox her in here or anything. She wouldn’t exactly love it or anything, but he was in a serious hurry, so she doubted he was gonna take the time to stop and smoke on the side of the 101. And he was going to, like, implode or something if he didn’t smoke soon. 

Finally she’d had enough. “If you keep it by the window, I won’t kill you if you smoke a cigarette." Seriously. They’d had their windows scrolled down to the warm night air since, like, Carson.

He swung around to stare at her, looking amazed under the big, painful-looking gouges on his face and neck. "Figured with your crystal-clear lungs, you'd wanna take my bloody head off if I…”

She rolled her eyes dramatically at him. “If you keep acting like that, I’m gonna knock you out just to get you to chill.” He was in pain; she knew he was. And, he was stressed as heck. He would probably be smoking like a chimney if she wasn’t in the car. “And I promise you; you do  _ not _ want me trying to drive your car for you, because me and driving? Not friends. And that’s even before the whole deal where you made this into, like, an anti-sun tank or something. So seriously. Just do it. Jeez.”

He pondered that for the briefest of moments, eyes on his driving-slit thing, then his hand was literally diving into one of his inside duster pockets, and he had the cigarettes out and was fumbling with thumb and forefinger for whatever cigarette had tapped out first. 

“You need me to hold the wheel for you?” she asked sweetly.

He shot her a  _ look _ . “Buffy, I’ve been smoking—and driving—since before you were born. I think I’ll manage.”

“Testy, much?” she answered cheerily, and leaned a little out of her own window to feel the breeze on her face. She was still a little weak-feeling, a little dizzy. The air felt really good; especially against the burning skin around the holes on the right side of her neck. 

Driving through the night brought back a few childhood memories, so she dipped a hand out to cup the warmish air of fall, slightly chilled at the behest of speed. Cupped her palm to enjoy the variations of pressure and temperature, felt them on her face as they whizzed through Thousand Oaks, toward Oxnard and Ventura and whatever else lay between them and Sunnydale. She’d never been that far north; at least not along the coast. Once when she was very little, Dad had taken them on a trip up to San Francisco, but they’d flown. She remembered crossing the Golden Gate Bridge, and looking across the Bay, and smelling the difference in the air up there… and that was about it. Something vague about the friends of his they’d gone up to see, who’d actually lived in, like, Monterey? Carmel? Salinas? Something like that, up there. 

Anyway, her life was LA, and she had never cared to venture far beyond it, before now. But this was kind of shaping up to be an adventure. 

She smelled the sudden, aromatic scent of tobacco burning. It didn’t smell as stinky or burny as she thought it would. It actually smelled kind of nice—and anyway, it was a scent she instantly associated with Spike—which meant, for her, safety. She caught herself drawing in a long breath and holding it, to suss out the various qualities of the brief vapor, before it departed out of his window. And heard him exhale with a sound not unlike a groan. “Bloody hell, that’s better.”

/Good. Maybe I can talk to him now without him freaking out./

She pulled her head back in, turned to face him. /Probably not the best time to ask him why the heck his car doesn’t have seatbelts. He’ll take it as an accusation or something./ Letting that one slide, she tilted her head a little, so she could study his pale, washed-out-looking face in the dark. His cheekbones made his eyes look shadowed, made his mouth stand out brightly, like some kind of advertisement for lip-quirks and tongue-tics, and should he really be allowed to do all that… oral stuff?

Also, she had the weirdest feeling—like a shadow of a memory—that he had maybe  _ licked _ her? after his crazy sire had bitten her. 

No, that didn’t sound like Spike. He was always so… at arms’ length with her. Probably it was some kind of weird dream or something. She’d been hypnotized or something, which… /First of all, how was she able to do that to me, when Lothos couldn’t?/

She opened her mouth to ask him, but he was still doing one of his tongue-things, and it made her blush again, the hazy recollection this time coming with a sensation of something she couldn’t have felt; cool breath on her neck and the feeling of…

/No way that happened. I’m losing my mind./

She looked away. “So, uh, you never told me why she’s the way she is. You know, all… crazy and weak. Why she needed Slayer blood in the first place. I mean, you said she was hurt by some mob somewhere in Europe, but like… How could humans—even a whole mob of ‘em—hurt a vampire that old enough to mess her up that bad, that she’d need my blood to get better?”

Spike exhaled heavily and flicked his cigarette out the window. The flying embers were like a cascade of sparks, dying before they reached the ground. Buffy felt her eyes ineluctably drawn to them… then back up to the end of the cigarette… and then, dangerously, back up to his mouth along with it, dammit. She was unfortunately mesmerized as he pulled it away, spoke again. “Well, her being mad has nothin’ to do with the mob, for one. Her ‘daddy’ did that to her, when she was human herself. Which is a long soddin’ story…” 

“Wh…”

His eyes shot over to meet hers, and there was some kind of ancient, dark hurt in them that shut her down hard. “Too long to tell it tonight.”

“O…okay.”

He turned back to the windscreen, flicking his cigarette absently once more as he did so. Stared out for a moment, then ran his bottom lip between his teeth. Buffy closed her eyes, didn’t open them again for a while, let his voice enter her ears without visual enhancement. The rumbly, accented cadence of it was bad enough. “Mob had a priest with them, was the thing. Sod tried to exorcise the demon out of her.” His voice was tight with pain as he spoke, and she could imagine his face, the agony in his bright blue eyes. How the hurt would mute them to gray. “D’ya know what an exorcism does to a being whose demon is a part of her?”

Buffy opened her eyes in spite of herself, since it almost felt like his words demanded some kind of witness. “No,” she answered, soft enough it was almost a whisper. 

“It tore her apart,” he answered, angry and taut. “Or, nearly so. Tried to rip her in twain. Had to carry her out of there in bits. So, after, went to a shaman to find out, was there a cure for her? For what those bastards did to her. Yeah,” he went on, and she saw his face tighten so that his cheekbones stood out even more, if that was possible. “Probably shouldn’t’ve let her go after another soddin’ orphanage. Knew better.” His voice went incredibly bitter, like he’d swallowed alum. “My bloody fault, again. Just like this business. I bloody well let her down; didn’t look after her like I ought…”

Buffy felt hollowed out, stared at him in horror. Any compassion for his girlfriend, for what the mob had done to her, faded in the face of the picture he’d conjured. “She… You… An  _ orphanage?” _ And, somewhere in the back of her mind, the words changed; words she’d buried long since. ‘Evil. Vampire. Murder. Evil.’ They marched along the back of her skull, irrefutable and impossible to reconcile with the man sitting here, who had been so kind. Who had  _ saved _ her. 

He didn’t look at her. “Tried to stop her. No use goin’ through that again. Bloody stupid, even if it’s kids no one wants. Draws too much bleedin’ attention. Learned that young. Not my sort of sport at all, but she...” And he sighed again, sounding tired. “Not all my fault, I guess. Only reason she goes after ‘em is she’s mad. So that’s as much Angelus’ fault, then, as mine.” He flicked his half-smoked cigarette out the window, to burn out on the highway. “Sodding  _ ‘daddy’.” _

Buffy winced in spite of herself at the furious, agonized quality of his voice as he said that last word. “What…”

He seemed to bite back his words when he next spoke. “Long bloody story, luv. Let’s just leave it at that Dru’s a soddin’ mess, and has been since before she made me, and it’s because of that I got raised by one hell of a vamp.” He shook his head tightly. “He’s a bastard, but he is my sire, to all intents and purposes…”

So, technically he was made by crazy-chick, but he was raised by someone else? This ‘Angelus’ guy? Because his girlfriend/sire vamp was, what? Too nuts to do the job?

“Still,” he went on, “he left me to care for Dru, when normally a sire’s s’posed to care for her get. So it’s been me and Dru, the last hundred years, since he and the old bent bitch scarpered.” His voice turned sharp, defiant. “And we’ve done alright for ourselves, yeah?” His eyes flickered to hers, and wow, his face was so  _ taut _ . “So, yeah, it was tough keeping her safe, when she’d do somethin’ like that, as got humans all in a rut to come after us. But that’s why she made me. To be her knight…”

/ _ Oh _ ./ His sire made him to help keep her under control, because she was too crazy to know how to act. To be, like, an under-the-table vampire who didn’t stir up trouble, or something. Except he got raised instead to be a disturber-of-the-peace type, because of it. And… /You kinda got stuck sort of taking care of her, like a kid who got raised taking care of a parent who only had a kid to feel loved by someone, or something, right?/

Man, poor Spike. What a big, stupid mess to be stuck in. No wonder he always looked so spun out.

“So it’s real soddin’ painful,” he muttered to the night, “that she’ll always want to go be with him. But it’s natural, as well.” His lips tightened till his cheekbones stood out insanely. Till he looked briefly like a death’s head. “He’s her sire,” he went on, pained. “You  _ always _ want to be with your sire, no matter what they’ve done to you.” The pain in his eyes was almost more than she could stand to witness. “No matter how much they’ve hurt you. It’s just the way of things.”

/Oh, man./ There was so much in that—so much in what he’d said, so many emotions swirling through the cab, that Buffy didn’t even know what to say to any of it. But she knew she had to say something, so she tried. Choked out a word or two, hoping that once she got started, she’d end up somewhere worthwhile. 

Anything, to ease that agonized look from his tormented face. “Well…” It really almost choked her to say it, but, “I guess that… kinda makes sense. That you wanted to stay with her no matter what, because she’s your sire…” /After all, here you are, running after her again, after you know she’s going to some other guy, because he’s  _ her _ sire… Because you get it, I guess?/ “And even if she’s done terrible things, and made you do ‘em with her, and even if she’s cheating on you now or whatever, if it’s a… A vampire thing, I can see why you’d be so, like, resigned, but also upset. I mean, she  _ is _ your…” She wasn’t sure how to word it. It kind of sounded like a sire was the center of a vampire’s universe or something. Human words didn’t really seem to be remotely enough. “Your girlfriend, and your…”

Something seemed to tighten even more in Spike. He was like a spring now… and yet he appeared to hesitate over something. When he finally spoke, it was to tell her something Buffy really had not expected in the slightest. “She isn’t.”

Buffy couldn’t quite compute her way through that terse statement. “She isn’t… what?”

“My girlfriend.” His eyes stared straight ahead through the sit in the window, like he could bore holes in the glass with his gaze alone. “We’ve been separated for a while now. Been just very close friends, for a bit.” He shrugged slightly, but she saw that his fists had tightened so much on the wheel of his car that his knuckles had gone white. The braided plastic cover thing squeaked a little under his hands, and the flesh around his intense cheekbones seemed to hollow. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want what’s best for her; and bein’ around Angelus isn’t it.”

Something seemed to soar inside of Buffy, something painful and confusing and terrifically excited. “You broke up?”

“Yeah,” he answered, tight and clipped. “What of it?”

“Nothing.” Her heart was doing weird flips, and her stomach was jumping, and she needed to chill, because just because he’d broken up with his—incredibly weird, but also incredibly  _ adult _ —girlfriend of a zillion years, didn’t mean he was suddenly on the market or anything. Especially for some dumb kid who had a crush on him because he’d helped her out for a while. 

Time to change the subject. Fast. 

Luckily she had one available, with no need to cast about. One that had been seriously bothering her this entire time, no matter how much she had been trying not to think about it. A failure, and one for which she hoped to find some absolution in his voice, his eyes. “So, is… Is Dru some sort of… special vampire, aside from being…” How to put it? Crazy seemed a little harsh, considering she’d been apparently abused in some obscure way till it had made her that way, but…

“She has the Sight,” Spike informed her, with a quick glance in her direction. He resumed watching the road, shoulders high and tense. “Always has. That what you’re asking?” He seemed to hesitate briefly, then, “She say something to you before she went after you? Something odd?” His voice had the tone of someone who wasn’t quite sure he wanted to hear the answer to his question.

Buffy frowned. “Well, yeah. But that’s not what I was asking about.”

“Yeah?” he led, now curious.

“Well, uh…” Gosh, would he think she was weak or something? Did he already? “Look,” she finally gave in to burst out at him, “back when I was fighting Lothos, he tried that hypnosis thing on me, and he couldn’t do it. It didn’t even make a dent. So why could your ex do it now? I mean, am I so screwed up because of the hospital that she could just…” She made a motion with her hand, into the gloom of the cab; like something sinking beneath something else, cheeks red in the night. He’d see her gesture. He could see in the dark like a cat.

Spike stilled to breathlessness, then sighed and shook his head. “No, pet. That’s not your fault either. Though I’ll have to say that raises you in my estimation even further, that you withstood thrall from a monster Lothos’ age, on top of every other bloody thing…” And he shot her a swift but warm and approving look that made her blink, it was so full of admiration. Before she could even figure out how to respond to that, he was back to watching the road, his voice rough once more. “Thing is, Dru’s got a direct line to some ancient something or the other that rules her life.” His voice went low, quiet, perhaps regretful. “She speaks prophecy. It tears her to bits; might destroy her someday. She’s always had a strong thrall; got it from Nest. So I’m guessing between heredity and whatever pulls at her, she’s got an edge to that sort of thing that, for all she’s hundreds of years younger than Lothos, managed to pull you under.” 

His eyes glanced back at her then, contemplative before he resumed his perusal of the road, and his expressive mouth turned to a pensive frown. “Or, maybe you’re just susceptible, since you’re friendly to vamps of our line? Maybe hangin’ about with us has convinced your brain that we’re safe to listen to, innit? Wouldn’t that be a rub?”

/Okay, Mr. Trying To Make Everything Your Fault./

“Who the bloody hell knows?” he finished curtly, and resumed tapping on his steering wheel, like the very thought made him want to climb out of his skin.

The car fell into an uneasy silence. This time, Buffy had no idea how to break it. It grew, swelled into a vast, uncomfortable thing, till she was ready to say anything, anything at all, to crash through the shivery glass that was their unusual uncertainty.

Spike beat her to it, though, because he was probably as discomfited as she was by the silence. “You never told me, pet, what she said to you that was odd.”

Buffy seized gratefully onto the conversational opening. “Oh, right. That.” He would come back to that, wouldn’t he, of all stupid things. But, it was better than nothing. “She, uh, called me some weird name, before she did it, was all.”

“Yeah?” His voice was tight again. “What was that, Buffy?”

Buffy cast her mind back, trying to recall it. Lifted her fingers to her sore neck, fingered the holes, with their accompaniment of raw and ragged toothmarks all round. And the memory came back to her, from the time before that shocking and sudden bookending of a moment. “Uh, Persa-something?” She concentrated, trying to bring it back, though it was difficult on this side of the whole ‘thrall’ thing. “Phoney…”

Spike went utterly still behind his wheel; like a vampire statue. “Persephone?”

“Yeah! That’s it! What the heck was that about?”

He went silent again for a very long moment, as the miles sped by beneath their wheels. When he finally spoke, he sounded like he was reciting something from a book. “‘My child, tell me, surely you have not tasted any food while you were below? Speak out and hide nothing, but let us both know. For if you have not, you shall come back from loathly Hades and live with me and your father, the dark-clouded Son of Cronos and be honored by all the deathless gods…’”

“Um, okay…”

He flashed her with an indigo look, inscrutable in the night, and crazy intent with something she could not parse for any money. “‘But if you have tasted food, you must go back again beneath the secret places of the earth, there to dwell a third part of the seasons every year…” His voice shook now, filled with some kind of odd longing. “…Yet for the two parts you shall be with me and the other deathless gods. But when the earth shall bloom with the fragrant flowers of spring in every kind, then from the realm of darkness and gloom thou shalt come up once more to be a wonder for gods and mortal men.’”

Buffy was now thoroughly nonplussed. “Seriously. What?” 

Spike startled her when he barked a sharp, self-mocking laugh. “Nothing, pet. Just idle fancy for an old vamp who has nothing else to live for.”

They drove on into the night.

***

Luckily, it hadn’t been apocalypse season. She’d been going, yes, for a few days, hadn’t slept much out of guilt… but it had nothing on those days when she was awake without sleeping at all for days at a stretch because of some attempt by idiot demons to take over the world. 

As such, and despite her semi-exhaustion, Cordy woke when Angel damn near fell out of bed. Sat up and fumbled for a stake she couldn’t reach, since it was probably over there with her abandoned clothes. “What…”

He was gasping, hand to his scarred chest. He didn’t reply, eyes wild on hers. He just stared for a moment, looking more animal than man… then scrambled on hands and knees halfway across the room, before finally gaining his feet somewhere about a foot or two before the door. Which he opened with desperate fingers, scrabbling at the wood, and staggered out, naked as a jay, onto the stair and, apparently, out into the night, and what the heck?

Was he in pain because of what had happened down in the hellmouth? Had what had happened between them hurt him in some way, and he wanted to get away from her before she felt guilty, or…

Thrusting back the sheet, she grabbed the nearest thing to hand. A robe, hanging over the bathroom door (which was, by the way, silk, and kind of kimono-like, and she always said Angel had some good taste), and flung it on on her way outside, to follow him and find out what was the what. 

No way a guy should go to bed with her and then just bail like that. Especially since, as far as she could determine, things had gone pretty damn well.

Once outside and up the steps to Angel’s well-hidden apartment, she scanned the alley, and… There he was; crouched on his hands and knees on the asphalt, and groaning like he was about to dust or something. 

Crap. 

Crouching, kimono or no, Cordy laid an arm around Angel’s trembling form, felt him contract and expand under her flesh as he shook. “Angel, what…” He felt like he was going to fly apart, or maybe vomit, or… Could vampires vomit?

When his head lifted, his eyes were blazing, and… Hm. He was wearing his vamp-face. 

“Oh. Hey, Cordelia,” he greeted her, and wow, he really sounded bizarrely cheerful. “Fancy seeing you here.”

She took this in for a moment in confusion, but decided to roll with it. Maybe he just thought she smelled good. Which, considering what had just gone on downstairs, she probably did, to him. “Yeah, uh, you know, when a guy goes to bed with you, then flees the scene, it usually makes a girl a little uncertain. You okay?”

“Oh, I’m dandy,” he answered, and slipped from under her arm to come to his feet, swing his arms out. Worked his neck from side to side, eyes bright as sulfur lights on hers. He looked… oddly devilish; and not in the playful way. “Don’t suppose you want another round?”

Unfolding back to a standing position, Cordy eyed him with growing concern. “I definitely wouldn’t mind, but first… Is there something wrong? Because you’re not acting like yourself.”

“Oh, I  _ am _ ,” he answered, and now he was showing all of his impressive dental equipment in a grin that was frankly worrying. “I am more myself now than I’ve been in a hundred years.”

Okay, now that was a loaded sentence. “A hundred years ago,” she pointed out warily, “you didn’t have a soul.”

A hand lifted, touched her cheek. “I always said you were a smart girl, Cordy,” Angel told her, and patted her cheek a little too familiarly; like he was giving out kudos. Then he tilted his head just slightly, mouth parted a little; testing the air. Testing her reactions, maybe? “I’ve been thinking. We could do a lot of damage in this hellmouth, you and I. What do you say? You ditch the old tweedy asshole in the library, help me off Nest, and we can  _ rule _ this town; you and me.”

Talk about taken aback. Cordy stared, now seriously convinced that this wasn’t the Angel she’d gone to bed with. For one, Angel wasn’t that ambitious when it came to his grandsire. Sure, she didn’t think he’d mind a little revenge, but trying to draw her into a war against the Master wasn’t exactly his first choice. And for another, he’d never, ever tried to talk her out of working with her Watcher. 

And okay; the  _ disdain _ in his voice, about everyone and everything, was the utter limit. “Angel, I know the sex was good…” /I mean, it was you and it was me. Of course it was gonna be good./ “…But that doesn’t mean you need to go crazy and try to take over the world afterward. I mean, talk about being high off the moment, much?”

He lifted his brows, eyeing her with a weird sort of calculation. “I thought you were better than this,” he answered flatly. “I thought you had more to you. Maybe I made a mistake.”

His tones were cutting; on the verge of dismissal. And, whether she was in the middle of an actual action!Cordy moment or not, it damn well hurt. Cordelia had given herself pretty freaking completely to Angel, only a little while ago. It had been a damn long time since she had done that with anyone—or, no. Scratch that. Even the first time, she hadn’t. She’d been experimenting, the first time; getting experience points, doing what was expected and getting something out of the way just to have it done and over with. This had been… special. And it had been pretty damn wonderful, she’d thought. 

She had also very much thought he’d been with her in that. It had seemed like it, all throughout the whole thing. Angel had encouraged her, loved her, followed her lead the way he always did; offered suggestions but never pushed… And lost himself, when the time came; when she began to do so as well. They’d found a kind of mutual Shangri-la, for a while there, that had been only theirs. 

It had been a truly beautiful place to start from, and she’d be damned if she’d let him spoil it now; either the memory, or the moment as a jumping-off place for future endeavors, by his being an asshole. 

Besides; Angel didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would go all, ‘Now I’ve had you, I don’t need it anymore, I was just being nice to get in your pants’. For one thing, it wasn’t like he had a lot of opportunities to get into a lot of girls’ pants, the way he acted, all weird and from the shadows guy. If he was gonna keep getting laid, she was kind of his big opportunity around Sunnydale.

No. There was something else going on here; something weird. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” she told him flatly, “but you’re kind of being a bastard. And since you definitely weren’t ten minutes ago, during the afterglow, color me curious.” She lasered him with a pointed glare. “I wanna know  _ why _ , Angel.”

He just grinned at her, toothy as a shark; which was weird, now that she thought about it. He never stayed this long in his vamp-face. He always preferred to remain in the human one. “You know I love it when you order me around.” He  _ tsk-tsked _ at her, shaking his head, lifted his hand to her face again, then dropped it and shrugged. “I’d’ve thought you’d handle things better. You’re not a blushing virgin. I’d’ve thought you’d be ready to act like a big, grown-up girl, but I guess not.” 

Turning in the alley, still naked as the day he was born, body gleaming with healing scars, he headed back for his apartment. “Guess you don’t wanna play, after all. Which is too bad, since I would rather work with you than against you.” He opened the door. “It could’ve been great, kid.” And he headed in. “Better come get your clothes, or I’ll throw ‘em out.”

His cavalier act pierced her through the heart. It hurt. God, how it hurt. But… There was something wrong here, and she knew it. To hell with her clothes. 

She followed him in, marched to the scattered skirt and top and sundries with her head held high, bent over to rummage… and retrieved her stake. Had him against a wall with it held square to the center of his chest in a flash. 

He began to chuckle, sounding delighted. “Never knew you were so kinky, Cordy.”

“You’re not Angel,” she insisted. /Force the hurt down, use it as an engine. This isn’t Angel. This is some… demon-possession, or…/

/Angel wouldn’t treat me this way after… After./

She shoved the stake harder against his naked chest, drawing blood. /Damn you./

He nodded at her, eyes flashing in the low light. “You’re right,” he told her. “Angel has left the building.” And, risking unlife and limb, he reached out under her stake-hand to undo the tie of her borrowed robe. It fell open, and now he was handling her by the waist, trying to bring her closer, and oh, god, the thing was, her brain knew something was wrong, but her body only knew that those hands did good things, and she was shivering under his cool touch, and…

She pushed herself away with an effort, almost dropping the stake as she did so. “I am so not going back to bed with you when you’re acting like this, Mister.”

He shrugged then, and bent over to retrieve his abandoned slacks. “Then you better get dressed and get out. Because otherwise, you’re walking out naked.” He shot her another grin, this one literal, calculated evil. “I’m going to need my robe back.”

/Oh, wow./

It was humiliating, dressing in front of him, after everything, but she did it with her head held high. “I’m going to figure this out,” she informed him as she stamped into her sensible patrol shoes—white, sporty cheerleading ones—and turned for the door. “Whatever’s going on, I’m all over it.”

His supercilious expression never faded. “I’m sure you will,” he answered, lazily, and gave her a pointed nod. “Don’t let the door hit you on your way out.”

She had to fight against the emotional backwash that wanted to overwhelm her at each word. They felt like horrible blows. Cruel, harsh, calculated to cause maximum pain… But she fought back with the knowledge that this  _ wasn’t _ Angel, something was wrong… “Wow, I must’ve really got into your head, huh?” she shot back as she pulled open the door.

“Cordy,” he answered, “I’ve fucked thousands of girls over the centuries. What makes you so special?”

That, alone, made her realize, beyond all else, what was really wrong. That, and the other clue, about identity, and time. Because Angel would never, not once, have compared her to the horrible things he’d done  _ then _ . Certainly not after everything… 

/Most of the time he tries to pretend that stuff never happened. He sure the heck doesn’t  _ celebrate _ it./

Something had happened to his soul. It was the only thing that made sense. And if that were true…

/Oh, crap./

Turning as she exited, she shot him a level look. “I’ll be seeing you, Angelus.”

His eyebrows shot up… and his grin was a slow, growing, delighted thing. “I take it back. You’re one of a kind.” And he gave her a little salute as she closed the door right in his face.

She needed to get back to Giles and warn him—warn everyone—of what had just happened. Maybe get some answers.

Well; after she had a shower. She needed to wash tonight off her skin, before she talked to anyone.

* * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


It's fun to figure out how different people might react differently to different events, depending on whether or not their heads are clouded by varying emotional reactions to situations, that sort of thing. Also, just, what level of practicality has been beaten into people's heads.   
  
I see Cordy as the kind of person who has spent her life living outside of her emotions in a lot of ways; being businesslike. Which would help in such a situation... but she's also very cut off from said emotions, emotionally stunted, even. The reaction Buffy had (aside from being different because it was a first, and then being browbeaten by the cruel jock type of interaction, while she's still all starry-eyed), was the reaction of a person who lives a deeply emotional life and hasn't yet had to cut herself off from her emotions in that way.  
  
(Unrelated, but coming up with an explanation for why Dru was so weakened by interacting with that mob in Prague was a fun exercise! Anyone else have any theories? I've never seen any--though granted I've read nothing like all of the stories on here; I think that'd take a lifetime or something! This was my best shot, tho.)  
  
Anyhoo. We'll see how the threads will converge, and whether it will be explosive, next week!

Oh; almost forgot to credit Spike quoting _The Homeric Hymn To Demeter_ again. 


	13. Re-Do…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... yeah. Sunnydale. Worlds colliding.  
> We'll see how that goes.  
> TY to wolf_shadoe for keeping up w/ my late- breaking updates! (Speaking of, my computer hath died, so I will con't to endeavor when it comes to updating regularly, but writing time and posting may be affected till I can replace it. I hope not, tho!)
> 
> Public service announcement: I tried not to make it awkward in here, but I had to find another way to reference the curse happening and its aftermath in here (and will continue to find other ways), because (in case there are people here who haven't read my fics before), I flat refuse to use the word so casually flashed around in these series (BtVS and AtS), for Romany and related folk, because it is a racial slur, which has been in the past and is still currently being used for things like forced sterilization, removals, 'race'-based violence, and has led to genocide more than once. No thanks. (For the record, when it comes to Jenny and her relatives, people of that ethnicity would be highly unlikely refer to themselves by that racial slur as an identity marker! Just, UGH.) 
> 
> /Public service announcement.

**Sec.13C: Re-Do…**

“What’s the deal?”

Spike had halted the car for a moment in front of the ‘welcome’ sign on the way into town (which, by the way, looked super new). He frowned as he drummed his fingers some more on his steering wheel and eyed it. “It’s only… Meant to keep a low profile this time, innit?”

“Huh?”

“Oh, well,” he muttered… _and drove the car right over the sign._

 _“Excuse_ me?” Buffy demanded, staring in shock at his grinning profile. He looked so damn satisfied as he shifted into reverse and backed off the wreckage.

She was still clinging to her door and seat, originally to avoid being bounced around the cab like a lone marble in a bottle from the impact, and now to avoid being knocked off-kilter as the car crunched worryingly and made protest-y noises in the reverse. 

They lurched back off the lawn and curb and back onto the street, and had he wrecked his precious ride’s undercarriage? Were they stuck forever here, like an hour and a half north of LA? 

While she was still freaking out and wondering what the hell, Spike turned to her. “It’s tradition, now, luv.” And, swinging the shimmying wheel, he aimed them back toward downtown Sunnydale, which appeared to be sleepy enough at this hour to have missed that little bit of insane vandalism. 

“Oh my God,” Buffy spoke finally, after several minutes spent just absorbing foregoing events. “Is being a vampire just basically being, like, five, but hungry?”

At this, Spike snickered. Actually _snickered_ , as he swung the wheel again—running a red light as he did so, let the world note. Not that there were any cars around, but still—and heading south down some long, empty, four-lane drag. “What’s the point of following the rules if you’re not bound by them anymore?”

“Oh my God, you’re seriously a toddler on a blood-high.” Rolling her eyes, Buffy crossed her arms. “For the record, this does not make me your babysitter.”

Spike scoffed at that. “Goes both ways, pet, with you bein’ a sixteen-year-old hormone-bomb.”

Stung, Buffy snapped back immediately. “Oh, please, I am so the most mature one in this situation, right now. Just wow.”

They snarked at each other all the way to what appeared to be Spike’s destination; some kind of lame motel on the edge of town called the Sunnydale Arms. Which, since Buffy was starting to get seriously tired—not that she would admit that to Spike—she was super glad when he got out, beckoned to her, and started shelling out cash for a room. 

They were checking in kinda late—almost midnight—but she wasn’t sure why Spike was acting weird. It wasn’t like they were _that_ late, and he was going to be in danger of cooking in the morning sun or anything. Also, the motel guy acted kind of weird about them, eyeing Buffy like he was worried or something, though he seemed to relax a little once Spike asked for a double. He tensed again when Spike, as he paid for the room, casually asked the man if the in-room phones had long distance for free, or if they’d be billed for it.

The motel guy frowned, looking even more suspicious. “How long a long distance are we talking about? New York? Mexico?”

“LA.”

“Oh. Yeah, sure.”

“Fine.” Spike turned to Buffy. “Best call your mum, pet, middle of the bloody night or no, let her know we’ve landed safely, and what’s on, so she’ll not worry overmuch. No doubt she’s terrified, since you didn’t come home tonight.”

“Yeah,” Buffy murmured, belatedly guilty over how her mother would be feeling by this point. Mom was so overprotective, since she’d come home again. But then, honestly, it wasn’t like she’d asked to be bitten by a vampire and caught up in some vamp family quarrel, either. “Not sure how I’m gonna explain this to her, but… I’ll try.”

“Appreciate it, luv.”

Inside his little booth, the man seemed to relax the rest of the way as he handed out the motel room keys with their heavy plastic tags. “Room 202. Don’t smoke in there, will ya? It’s tough enough keeping the place clean as it is. I’ll have to take your deposit if you do.”

Spike just grunted as he took one of the keys and passed the other to Buffy. “Go on in and get settled, pet. I need a bit of time to think.”

Translation; he needed time to pace up and down the walkway and smoke two or three cigarettes in quick succession, till he could chill out. “Fine. See you after you’re done.” She slung her plastic bag full of goodies over her shoulder—all that he had scrounged from her former room at the warehouse for her comfort—and headed wearily up the rattling metal staircase toward the second floor of the motel. 

The room was dingy and smelled like old smoke and bleach. It had an orangey-yellow bedspread, an old, worn brown chair, a peeling table and dresser, an aging TV, and a stained Formica counter for the sink. It was no Motel 6… but it wasn’t like they’d be there that long. And, technically, it was still kind of a step up from the warehouse, since the bathroom was a real one, and not a converted whatever, so there was that. 

She wondered what the water pressure would be like in the shower. She had gotten used to pleasant, normal bathing facilities, living with Mom again—amazing what you could get used to in three days—and she didn’t necessarily want to go back to makeshift bathing of any kind. Not that she thought anything here could be like that bath situation Spike had set up for her before. Not that she was ungrateful. He had done the best he could, considering the circumstances, gone way out of his way to make the room nice for her, but still. Real shower. Good deal.

She could cope with this. 

Right now, though, she was exhausted. Which was a little sad, considering it wasn’t much past eleven… but she _had_ been sucked half-dry by a vampire. Spike had informed her that considering her Slayer constitution, she should be ‘right as rain’ by tomorrow, with a little protein and juice and stuff, which she had plenty of in her stash of snacks. He had proposed ordering a pizza or something for her once they’d landed, to ‘feed her up’, and ‘thicken her blood’. She half wanted to take him up on that, half just wanted to crash and be done with it, take up the whole blood-replacing deal tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep. /Sleep heals, right?/

Man, she was beat. 

Heading to the right-hand bed, since it was closest to the phone, she plunked herself down on the bottom corner, and faced up to the one thing she didn’t want to do at all tonight. Setting her snack-and-toiletries bag beside her on the bed, she sighed, picked up the ancient-looking, beige phone receiver. Held it to her ear, studied the instructions taped above the rotary dial, and, with a sigh, dialed ‘9’ for an outside line, then ‘1’… and, after a moment’s thought, her mother’s new number. She had only in the last couple of days drilled the thing into her own head. You never knew when you’d need to know it to plunk a quarter or two into a payphone and call from across town, because something had gone down and you were stranded, needed parental assistance. Remembering the right phone number was survival 101.

Mom answered on the first ring. “Buffy? Please, say you’re Buffy…”

“Hi, Mom. I’m sorry…”

“Buffy, oh God, I’ve been so _worried_ , what…”

/Dammit./ “I’m really sorry, Mom, but listen. Something’s gone down…”

“Oh, God, what happened now?”

Buffy bit her lip, listening as she did to Spike’s pacing stutter to a stop outside the door. He had halted probably in order to listen tensely to her conversation. Poor guy. He was taking all this as his personal responsibility. “Uh, so okay. I went to visit Spike, right?”

“Buffy…” 

“Okay, so when I got there, he wasn’t there, but his ex-girlfriend was. And she’s, um… kind of crazy. So she bit me…”

Mom’s answering silence was profound.

Buffy hurried on, into the gap. “I’m fine. She only bit me a little. Then Spike got there and stopped her, but she ran away, and she’s the kind of person who needs… a caregiver. So I’m going with Spike to find her and catch her, before she hurts herself or anyone else again…”

Mom had found her voice once more, in the midst of this summary. “Buffy! This… person hurt you, and now you’re going _after_ her, to try to catch her…”

“It’s my job, Mom.”

That short, flat statement floored Mom. She could be heard sputtering in shock from here. After a moment, she kick-started once more into words. “But… If she drained your… Your blood, you need to go to the hospital, and…”

Buffy shook her head, feeling oddly amused by the priorities of a parent, which were so way out of line with the instincts of a Slayer. “It’s no big; really, Mom. I’m barely weakened. I just need a good night’s sleep. I don’t even think she meant to incapacitate me much. She just wanted to distract Spike enough to make her getaway, because she knew he wouldn’t ever leave me behind, hurt, to go after her.” Which was both an awareness Buffy couldn’t remotely question, and a warm thing, deep inside her, that spread from one end of her being to another, suffusing her all; the knowledge that between the sire he’d loved and tended and cared for for almost one hundred and twenty years, and her, the girl he’d picked up from the asylum a month ago, Spike had chosen her. Buffy.

How crazy was that? “Anyway, we’re up in Sunnydale…”

 _“Sunnydale?”_ Mom demanded, shock raging in her voice. “Buffy, I want you to come home, this instant! You can’t just run off with Spike—don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful to him for all he’s done for you, but this is… This isn’t your responsibility! If it’s his girlfriend…”

“Ex-girlfriend. And sire,” Buffy put in, oddly insistent on that point.

Mom seemed even more upset by her qualification. “Whatever she is to him, it’s his problem to deal with, not yours…”

“Vampires _are_ my problem, Mom. It comes in the job description. If one is running around uncontrolled and ready to hurt people, that makes that vampire mine to deal with.” Did she not get it, from what they’d explained to her? “I’m the _Slayer_ , Mom. This is what I _do_.”

Mom’s voice went hard. “Then you need to quit.”

Buffy surprised herself when she laughed out loud, cynical and hurt. “Do I ever wish I could; but it’s not something you quit. It’s inside me. It can’t be torn out; not by psych meds or tranquilizers or doctors or juvenile detention, or parental disapproval from your father.” God, it hurt, too. “It’s a part of me. I was born this way. I’ll be this way till the day I die. So I might as well accept it and deal.” She shrugged, though Mom couldn’t see it. “Anyway, I just wanted you to know I’m okay. I’ll check in every evening…”

“Buffy, I want you to come home right now, or I’ll come up there and get you myself.”

A pang of worry shot through Buffy. “Mom, that would so not be the best idea right now. Not with Drusilla on the loose.”

“Buffy Anne Summers…”

“Just let me deal with this sitch for a few, and then I’ll come home. I promise. Just…” She closed her eyes, clinging to the ancient phone so hard the plastic squeaked. “Just trust me.”

“Oh God, Buffy…”

“I love you…”

“Buffy, please.”

“Talk to you soon. Bye, Mom.” Buffy hung up before her mother could pull at her heartstrings any more than she already had.

Spike came in as she sat there, staring sightlessly at the phone on the corner of the bed. Picked it up, returned it to its home on the slightly crooked table, then moved to sit across from her on the bottom corner of his own bed. “Sorry about it, pet.”

“Yeah.” She kind of felt numb.

“We’ll be done up here quick, I think, if it helps.”

“Yeah,” Buffy agreed, and forced her eyes up to his. They were blue and anxious on hers. “So,” she forced it out briskly, ready to move on. “What’s the plan?” She shouldn’t feel so distant from everything.

Spike eyed her for a sec, as if he could look right through her. “Right now, Slayer, the plan is, you get some soddin’ sleep, yeah? We’ll look at the rest in the morning.”

Buffy nodded, looked back down at her hands. “What’ll you be doing while I’m out?”

He shrugged; a felt thing through his voice. “Be about town, casin’ the place. Tryin’ to figure out where Dru went. Where Angelus is, and the local Slayer. How things’ve shaken out since I was up here last.”

Buffy twiddled her fingers together, wondering. “What if you run into this Nest guy, and he hurts you?” She definitely didn’t want him damaged, in any way. But also, she couldn’t be stuck up here alone, without him. She couldn’t…

“Never happen, luv. Nest’s in a magickal prison, down deep beneath the earth. Couldn’t run into him unless I tried. And I can avoid his bullyboys, do I want to. Just have to smell ‘em out.” When she lifted her gaze to skewer him, seeking surety, his were blazing on her with certitude. “I’ll be safe, Buffy. I promise you, I’ll be here in the morning, when you wake.”

She let out a breath, nodded. “Alright.” Turning, she pulled down the ugly yellow bedspread, seeking likely-to-be-cleaner sheets, then rummaged through her bag for her warehouse toothbrush and, like, a clean shirt. “I guess… I’ll try to crash, then.”

“I’ll make sure there’s warm food here for you in the morning.” There was a throbbing quality in Spike’s voice as he rose. “Feed you up, take care of you. Promise, everything’s gonna be alright, yeah?”

She lifted her eyes to his, one more time, and smiled. “I know it will. You always make everything better.”

The look on his face was priceless, and full of wonder.

***

“So, why are we having an action-meeting right now, in the middle of the night?” Xander demanded, and tossed an apple from hand to hand. “Something else happen to Angel, or…”

Now that she had them all gathered, Cordy felt oddly loath to tell them all what had gone down. But it was her responsibility, so… “I needed to warn you all,” she started briskly. /Stay in charge. Start like you intend to finish. Businesslike. Just the facts./ It helped that she was addressing everyone in a clean dress, in fresh makeup, not a hair out of place. It would lend authority to her appearance. /I’m no lost little girl who made a bad call, somehow, by going to bed with my… Heck, what do I even wanna call him? He’s not my boyfriend. I was ready to call him my lover, but now.../ 

Who even knew, considering. “I think Angel’s lost his soul. That he’s evil.”

“What on Earth…” Giles exclaimed. “Cordelia, what makes you think…”

“Oh, God…” Ms. Calendar murmured, and closed her eyes. 

Something about the quality of her words, her tone, drew Cordy’s gaze. And in that moment, she remembered the odd warning the typing teacher had given her as she’d headed down to rescue her vampire only a day ago. “Oh,” she heard herself say, as realization struck. “You… knew.” She stalked closer, now facing the teacher down. _“How_ did you know?”

Jenny Calendar’s eyes lifted to hers, dark and wide and regretful. “I can’t tell you that.”

/Oh, hell no./ “Oh, you’d _better_ tell me that. Right. Now.” Cordy had just had the hell of a night, and she wasn’t ready to brook any bullshit from the peanut gallery.

Ms. Calendar hardened a little in the face of her not-quite-threats. “I told you what I could. That’s all I can tell you. I’m sorry.”

Cordelia was about to throw down, but before she could, Giles was there, interrupting on his girlfriend’s behalf. “I do beg your pardon, but what exactly are you two nattering on about? And how does it have anything to do with Angel apparently losing his soul?”

“You know something about the curse,” Cordelia insisted, eyes hard on Jenny Calendar’s. 

The teacher’s eyes jerked away, but not before Cordelia saw it; the telltale regret behind the woman’s guilty gaze. /Oh, like hell you’re gonna get away with hiding from this!/

Everyone was staring at Ms. Calendar now, and finally, she broke. “I know enough to know that if he experiences a moment of pure happiness, the curse breaks. He loses the soul. It’s a trigger…” 

“And you know this how?” Giles demanded, eyes flinty now as he eyed his girlfriend with some suspicion. 

“I can’t tell you that,” she repeated. The teacher had long since begun to wilt under the barrage of stares. She turned to Cordy, her expression begging for understanding. “I tried to warn you…”

“Oh,” Cordy heard herself say, withering, “because that completely random crap you said was going to make any sense! _Seriously?”_

“Wait,” Xander broke in, sounding confused. “If he loses his soul when he has a moment of pure happiness, then how…” He trailed off, blinking, and then his eyes fell to Cordelia. “Oh,” he murmured, and his voice took on the cast of a stepped-on frog. “ _Oh_.” And he turned the color of dried-out clay from the art room.

“ _Oh_ ,” Willow echoed him, sounding sad instead of horrified. 

Giles remained silent for a long moment, then, very quietly, “ _Oh_.”

“Yes, yes,” Cordelia put in, rolling her eyes, “I slept with Angel, can we please move on to the part where someone who was a complete idiot made the soul-curse-thing with a sex loophole?”

“It isn’t a sex loophole,” Jenny broke in, oddly insistent. “It’s a… feeling fulfilled in any way loophole. He can’t be contented. He can’t be at peace in all the many sides of his being. So if anyone comes along who satisfies all the sides of himself…”

Cordy made an exasperated face. “What, you mean the demon and the man? Because that doesn’t seem likely. He’s majorly in denial over the demon part of him.”

Jenny’s eyes were like dark lasers as they focused on her eyes. “Something about you must satisfy all the parts of him, or the curse wouldn’t have broken.”

“I so don’t need to hear this,” Xander muttered in the background.

“Xander, shut up,” Willow answered him. “This is crazy. Cordelia’s right. Who would create a curse meant to keep a monster chained, with a loophole that might free him again to tear up the world?”

“Ah… yes,” Giles murmured. He’d been staring at Jenny as if he’d never seen her before, his face very, very pale, but now he shook his head and blinked his eyes back into focus on Cordelia’s face. He took off his glasses briefly, polished them, and resettled them on his nose, all business once more. “It does indeed seem the height of irresponsibility to enchain a monster only to make it possible for him to ravage the world once more at any moment that he should find true happiness…”

“Well,” Jenny put in philosophically, “they probably thought it was impossible, since the two parts of him shouldn’t want the same things to be happy. You know, a cursed soul that’s all about remorse isn’t ever gonna be happy with mayhem and slaughter, which is what historically makes Angelus—the demon—happy, and it’s not like Angelus is gonna be made happy by some kind of grand gesture of martyrdom…”

Cordy rolled her eyes again. “Look. I don’t really care right now how it happened. What’s important right now is that he’s out there doing who knows what, and I need to figure out how to stuff that soul back into him before he creates any more havoc in this town than he did in our afterglow convo…”

“TMI!” Xander exclaimed.

“This is a big-kids talk, Xander,” Cordy snapped at him. “If you can’t handle it, show yourself out.”

He blanched, leaning away from her, but shut his mouth and stayed.

“…Anyway, since you seem to know so much, Ms. Calendar, you can fix this big mess you helped make with your big stupid going-nowhere hints by helping us figure out the magicks…”

Ms. Calendar winced. “There might be… a problem with that…”

Cordy rounded on her next. “You’re either in or you’re out. Make up your mind now.”

The woman flinched harder, looked away… and finally nodded, very, very slowly… and straightened her spine. “I need to… do some research. In secret.”

Cordy so didn’t have time for whatever Giles’ girlfriend’s problem was. “Whatever. Figure it out. We have a world to save. Angelus on the loose is way bigger than your issues, whatever they are; which, believe me, I don’t want to know.” She swung on Willow. “Help her and Giles. Research, whatever…”

“O…of course…”

“Giles. I know you have all this Angelus history in your books. Figure out what he’s likely to do next. I don’t know this side of him. I need to be able to predict his moves so I can hunt him down and beat him to the punch, before he does anything stupid.”

“Right. Yes, excellent idea…” 

“Okay. We have our plan.” Cordy scanned her team, nodded. “I expected this to be an all-nighter, but not for this reason. Yay. I’m going hunting for him. Wish me luck.”

Xander wouldn’t look at her. Giles nodded abstractedly, already paging through one of his books. Ms. Calendar was sort of avoiding her eye, her expression all weird and stressed, like a hunted rabbit. Willow’s eyes on hers, though, were liquid with sympathy. “Good luck,” she murmured softly.

That was just really weird, considering how she’d treated the girl in the past, but she’d take it. “Thank you, Willow,” she answered, and pivoted on her heel to head for the door.

/Keep it business. This isn’t Angel. Or, it is, but a side of him he’s never let you know. Whatever he says to you, file it away, and use it against him. If you get him back, it’s gonna be against his will, because he doesn’t want that curse back./ She sucked in a hard breath, made herself stand up tall. /This is gonna hurt, so keep that spine straight and do the thing. Nothing anyone throws at you will ever stick. You are Queen C, Cordelia Chase, and you always win, because there is no other option./

She left the school with her head held high.

***

He had to go quietly in the town, at first. Vandalizing signs aside. He rather doubted old Batface’s minions would link that business to him, based on his first visit. Though, should he ever visit again, they might begin to, now. /Best to avoid it hereafter, if we ever come back again, I reckon./ It was a sad thought; but then, Nest was no doubt still fucking livid with him for running out on the whole St. Vigeous business, and flubbing the ritual and that, back in October. Unlikely in the extreme that there would be anything he could do to get himself back into the old git’s good graces after something like that, considering his great-great was famous for dusting even very useful, old and powerful minions for making the most minuscule mistakes. /Much less premeditated acts of disobedience, innit?/ Age wouldn’t save him, much less any sort of future utility. 

He’d been chosen for the job because he’d proven himself against Slayers in the past; a chance to show his loyalty to his blood. From Nest’s point of view, he’d done neither thing well, so by now he was a hopeless blood-traitor. /Which, to be honest, considering at the moment I’ve gone and cozied up to another Slayer, like a ponce, he might well be right./

No, best if he avoided everything to do with old Batface entirely. Stayed to the surface, found where Angelus had holed up instead. Which would be, no doubt, as far from old great-great as possible, considering his Sire’s proclivities. Angelus had never wanted to be under Nest’s thumb either, and would avoid the old freak’s court as much as possible, try to keep from getting himself entangled in politics and ritual and the rest of that nonsense. 

And where Angelus was, was where Drusilla would be. 

/Best to start with the opposite side of town from the hellmouth. Best chance for finding the immediate family. Good for me, anyway, since that means I’ll not have to go too close to the action, either./

It’d be someplace flash, though. Toney and that. Angelus always liked to live high on the hog, as it were. 

It didn’t take long, actually, to locate his sod of a grandsire. He only needed to ask around the demon bar. Buy drinks for a couple of loudmouths who were already deep in their cups, poke about with the right questions, and he had his answer. Running true to form, Peaches was holed up in some abandoned mansion up on a high bluff smack in the middle of town—a bit close to the hellmouth, but maybe he was that impressed with himself and his relationship with the Slayer, that he’d risk staying so close to the Master of the city?—living it up and causing a minor stir already with his ‘art’. Probably trying to put on a show, catch his Slayer’s attention. 

The prat.

“How’s he getting away with that sort of thing?” Spike asked, prodding a bit further as he lifted his third shot of the very rough JD they sold in this not-so-fine establishment. Just the sort of place he liked to haunt, if not the sort of drink he preferred. “Thought he was cozying up to the Slayer. Playing it careful.”

The Thricewise on the next stool shrugged; if you could call it that. It wasn’t wearing a human guise right now, having relaxed a bit during its stint in the demon haunt. Hence, it was dripping slime all over everywhere, the snotty bastard. “They had some kind of falling out,” it essayed. “Rumor is she’s out for blood.”

“Hm.” Spike considered that possibility with not a little glee. The local Slayer was out after Angelus’ head, was it? Well, that was tidy. Maybe he could just sit back and watch the fireworks, and scoop Dru up after the fact, while she was still mourning. 

Not that he wouldn’t be slightly regretful to see Angelus leave this world, of course. At one point, he had been the greatest vampire ever to grace the Earth with his presence; the most terrifying, the truest to form... The one to be emulated above all the rest. /And my sire. Mine./ But. Those days were long gone by. Angelus had fallen oddly silent for a century, when it came to the sort of acts that had made him a Master; and in that time he had done a few inexplicable things, as pertained to his family. /Among them, leaving yours truly to swim for shore from a sodding submarine, racing the sun. And siring a bloke to save the whole bloody sub, humans and all, then kicking the poor sod off with me. Not that he was ever all that enthusiastic about raising his fledges, but he was always one for family loyalty, and seeing to it the Line knew their duty./  
  
/Before he left us, anyway./  
  
And that? That was the greatest oddity, and his greatest sin. /Leaving Dru and I to fend for ourselves for a hundred years, without so much as an occasional bloody look-in to see how we’re getting on. What the bloody fuck was that? You _don’t_ treat family that way!/

The old confusion and hurt surfaced once more, despite his best efforts, to tangle with the hope he didn't like to admit was still there, beneath everything. The hope that Angelus would come back, make everything right again. Because he'd long since given up believing it would happen, shouldn't want it anymore. 'We've been fine, without you. We don't need you!' had become his mantra, since; for over seventy years. 'You left _us!'_  
  
It was his nest-sire's most inexplicable crime. Especially since, by deserting them in that fashion, Angelus had badly hurt Dru, made it impossible for Spike to ever make her happy. And yeah, it was over—long over, now—but there was only so much a scion should be willing to put up with, before wanting to see one’s elders take a bit of their own medicine.  
  
Pride demanded he no longer want his grandsire in the nest. He was the one to care for Dru now—though, clearly, he'd done a fucking awful bloody job of late, and Angelus was no doubt going to see to it he heard about it, now Dru had run to him—but dammit! He'd done it well for a hundred years before now! /We don't miss you anymore!/  
  
Except, Dru clearly always had, damnitall.  
  
Well. Whatever happened, there was Sunnyhell to account for. /You’ve never tried to face down a Slayer, have you, old man? Well, here’s your chance to see if you can beat me in a fight, after all these years. Because I’ve beaten two. So if you can beat one, it means maybe you can still best me. But if you can’t…/ 

If he couldn’t… then maybe, after twenty years of terror and close control, it might mean that if it came down to it, Spike might be able to take the old man after all. What a thought.

Slamming down his shot-glass, he nodded to the Thricewise. “Appreciate the information. Next one’s on me.” And he nodded to the knobby, seedy looking barkeep as he laid down a few bills. The barkeep nodded back, looking a little worried; but in that sort of way that said it was the bloke’s habitual expression. Fellow was a worrywart if Spike had ever seen one. Which was understandable, for someone mostly-human, serving drinks in a demon underground. 

Pushing away from the bar, Spike spun on his heel and departed the bar—humbly named ‘Willy’s—to slide back into the DeSoto and head more or less north. He’d locate this manse by feel, come close enough to watch—his family would feel him, of course, as well as he’d feel them, but not know where he was, or how close—and get the lay of the land. 

Hopefully, with so many of the bloodline about, they might mistake him for someone else. Doubtful, when they were all of the same nest, but there was always the possibility. 

Hopefully Dru wouldn’t spin off into prophecy at the feel of him, and Angelus wouldn’t turn him over to Nest to be rid of him. /You know. For old times’ sake./ 

Though, considering the business with the submarine, who knew what the bloody hell Angelus might do, anymore.

***

The mansion was precisely the sort of place Spike might have expected Angelus to choose to show off for his baby. He always did like fancy digs, the showboat wanker. 

Creeping closer, Spike noted a few differences in the feel of things. Dru felt stronger, for one. As, of course, she might, considering she’d just dined on a Slayer, and was back to being everything she had been before that sodding mob had gotten hold of her. She was roaring with strength and power; the beautiful monster she’d been before all of that had happened. The one he’d wanted to be his mate; to stand with him for a century. More than.

And yet… she had a contentment about her that she had never had, when they had been alone; a steadiness he had not felt since…

Oh, yes, he recognized it, though he didn’t like to admit it; recognized it from his fledgling years, when everything had been wonderful and they had been a family; and Dru? Dru had been happy. Happy because she had had Grandmummy and Daddy and her Knight, all in a row, and her life had been as close to complete as ever it could be, and /Oh, Christ, luv, this really is what you want, isn’t it?/

He almost backed away, then, left her to it, whatever the old git might do to and with her… but he did note, then, a few oddities. 

Angelus, for one, felt a great deal different than he had the last time Spike had accidentally reunited the family here in Sunnyhell. For one, that odd… muddiness was gone, that had made his grandsire feel so strangely distant and attenuated. He felt strong—roaringly so—and terrifyingly immediate, as if his demonside had been tuned up to ‘full’. It was a contrast that Spike only noted now, because he realized that Peaches had felt muted in this strange way in all their previous meetings since… /Since Darla called us out and brought us over to massacre everyone in that circle of vardos back in 1898./ 

Angelus had come back to them right at the turn of the century, finding them carousing in China. Spike had been far too high off of his first Slayer kill and Dru’s full capitulation, for the first time ever without the need for a full-nest-orgy, to care overmuch right then about his grandsire’s odd behavior, or the old bent bitch’s reactions to Angelus’ strange broodiness. But then, everything had changed, right after. They’d both gone, and left him and Dru well and truly alone. He’d finally won her to himself, forever… but they’d lost everything else. Lost their whole family, and he’d never known or understood why. /But… you didn’t feel like this, then. And you didn’t on the submarine, either. You felt like you did when I met you last month. Like half of yourself; or like you were hidden behind a lampshade or an oilskin. Like whatever blazed in you was buried deep, or…/

Whatever that was was gone now, and Angelus was back as he had been for all of Spike’s fledgehood; vicious, fierce, and dangerously immediate. Seen through a deep casement window, his head popped up the instant he sensed an incoming relative—a vamp with age on him—sniffing the air, mouth open and sensing… and his eyes blazed. 

Dru, though, just laughed. “Knights errant need to learn to follow their new colors, and not to heed old bonds.”

He could see her, eyes looking not through the window but through the thick walls, as if she could see him through stone; her hands on ‘daddy’s shoulders, weaving through his hair while Angelus leaned back and stared into the night, rigid and glaring instinctively in Spike’s direction. At her words, though, his amber eyes narrowed, his familiar demon’s face relaxing. “I thought I recognized you, Spike. Bad idea to come back. Dru doesn’t want you. And I hear you’ve become pretty famous for fighting Slayers… but this one’s _mine_.” 

The snap he lent to that last actually stung, even from here. 

The hint was plain. Angelus intended to claim this Slayer. Actually _claim_ her. Holy fuck, was he sodding _mad?_ Who would be balls-out insane enough to try to claim a _Slayer?_

“It’s alright, Daddy,” Dru reassured him, still stroking his hair as if he hadn’t even spoken. “Spike’s busy with his Persephone. And Daddy’s all lost in his own Underworld; become Agriope, forever now in the arms of Hecate because the one who came to fetch him couldn’t help but come back to look, look upon him… And now she sings sad, sad songs, lost too and locked away in the world above, and moving the world till e’en the hearts of the stones will weep with her, and the flowers wilt with sorrow, and every wild thing march behind her, seeking, seeking; and will Hades be mov’d again? Such sad songs…”

Spike frowned, thrown by his sire’s exegesis. Agriope was another ancient name for Eurydice. Why the bloody hell was she comparing Angelus to Orpheus’ lost love? And who the sodding hell was Orpheus, then, in this version of the tale, wandering about moving everyone to try to release him?

Seen within the room of the candlelit mansion, Angelus’ face had relaxed. “We’ll make the world sing sad songs, Dru.” And his features creased with old, familiar glee. “Terrible, painful ones. Tell me again, about this Judge?”

“All in pieces, he is, and buried in stone. We’ll find him, put him back together, like Humpty Dumpty. And then all the queen’s horses and all the queen’s men… won’t be enough to take him apart ever again…”

Angelus grabbed Dru unceremoniously about the waist and swung her round, dragging her across his lap, so that she shrieked in approval. He was obviously aware that Spike could see them. He generally only liked to do this sort of thing when Spike could see; make Dru this happy. Make her kick her heels with glee at getting such attention from him, because he was aware that it drove Spike mad with sick jealousy and rage. 

/Or, that it used to./ Now he just hoped that his sire was happy, and that Angelus wouldn’t hurt her too much. Only so much as she liked, and that he wasn’t doing it merely to use her. Though, no doubt that last was too much to ask. 

He only wanted what was best for her, was the thing of it. 

Still, he didn’t hang about to watch Angelus snog her while she laughed and enjoyed it. That would be asking a bit too much, considering the flashbacks to a very long and trying fledgehood. Dru was well enough to be going on with at the moment, so, having heard enough for the nonce, he turned and made to leave. 

And damn near ran into the Sunnydale Slayer’s stake, held at chest-height. “What are _you_ doing back here?” she demanded as she brought him up short.

He narrowed his eyes at her, keeping very still to avoid encouraging that twitchy stake-hand of hers. He could get round and disarm her if he just darted one wrist to the inside and knocked her stake to the right a bit. She wouldn’t expect it, figuring him, no doubt, to go for knocking it away entirely, and toward the outside. It would be the most likely and instinctive move. 

Prepared for survival, he nodded toward the window behind him, ready to send her emotional equilibrium sideways as well. It might help his odds. “Just came to see my former canoodling with the old man. You know; in the way of ensuring he’s treating her right. Not trying to get your knickers in a twist, Slayer. Just seeing to family business.”

Her eyes narrowed on him, and he noticed then that she had a new hardness about her features. She looked… hurt. Bit weary as well. “Canoodling?”

“Yeah, you know, snogging?” Nothing. “Making out?” he tried again, and shrugged at her expression; recognition, with a swift attempt to bury the immediate hurt. “Knowing them, likely more, but I’ll not stay for that show. Seen it enough in my first twenty years.” Moving slowly so as not to set her off, he tugged a cigarette out of one of his lower pockets. As expected, her eyes followed his every move. “Don’t need the replay.” He kept everything lazy; even his drawl. It would keep her off-guard.

Tellingly, she blanched. And while she was still, no doubt, doing the replay herself, inside that pretty, too-young head of hers, he struck with his fag-holding hand, knocking the stake aside with a stinging blow that numbed her fingers; so that she came quite close to dropping it as well. He kicked her then, hard and sharp but not in any damaging way, and skipped back. “No offense, pet, but I’m not interested in dusting today. Not even interested in a good, bracing fight, as I’ve other things to see to. If you want to catch the show, I’d suggest that window… but if I were you, I’d avoid it.”

She’d already recovered from his blow, re-tightened her grip on her stake, was coming back in at him, but at this last something cracked in her proud regard, and she backed off, eyes flicking to the casement window he’d haunted moments before. She shook her head then and turned aside; and he knew it then, by the sudden slope to her shoulders. Angelus had, for some bloody reason or other, most definitely shagged this Slayer, and gotten her sodding dependent on him; though why he’d do that was anyone’s bloody guess. 

Unless it was for this result, right here and now. Because in this moment? In the aftermath, when she got to see what he really was? She was most terribly hurt by his actions, as only a kid could be, no matter how much she was trying to hold her head high.

If the old git was trying to demoralize his enemy, he’d bloody well managed it, and damn if he wasn’t a sneaky sod. This was fairly twisted even by Angelus’ standards. It was also a long bloody con, for the old man. He’d been hanging around Sunnyhell for what? A year or some bloody thing? Damn near, Spike thought, based on the news he’d heard in his last visit. Back in the day, he hadn’t seen Peaches manage to hold his wad and be patient over his ‘art’ for more than a week, at most, no matter how operatic he tried to be. It just wasn’t in him to hold off on the knife-twisting portion of festivities for so long; to hold back on seeing the payoff. 

This, though? Christ. This was a new version of fucked off. Spike would admire it if he didn’t have a bit of a soft spot for Slayers. As it was, he rather thought it unsportsmanlike. 

He could have done the same himself, with any number of the chits over the years. It would have been easy enough, considering the way the Council liked to raise them; torn from their families, no one to love them and no one else to depend on but an old man who lied to them, kept them at arms’ length half the time, like sodding half-starved attack-dogs. Most of them were mere infants, with the emotional maturity of gnats, lonely and missing their loved ones, ready to hear anything, and no doubt easy to tip over the edge into emotional agony if one wanted to swing below the belt. 

But that was playing dirty. It wasn’t a real fight. Spike could have hit them where they were weak, every time, if he’d wanted to, but that wasn’t the sort of fight he’d wanted. He’d wanted a straight-up brawl. And he didn’t respect this sort of fight either, where it was already over before you’d begun. /If you’re going to fight the chit, just fight her. Kill her and have done with it, for fucksake, Angelus. Don’t destroy her first, or the fight isn’t even going to be worth it. They already all have a death-wish as it is, anyway, the way they’re driven about. Why make it even less of a challenge? She’ll just end up a sobbing wreck begging you to end it, by the time you’re done with her./ Though, granted, knowing his grandsire, that was no doubt his goal. 

That was the way his teacher liked to work. He well remembered the times he’d been… encouraged, under Angelus’ tutelage, to make it last. To wreck them. _“It’s no fun if they don’t cry, Spike, when you kill them… This is the fun part.”_ Angelus, who’d wanted him to play with his food, to rape with his pillaging… To look in their eyes and see the terror. Angelus who loved to look. 

Spike never had thought much of all the dragging it out and watching. He just wanted to get off quick; kill them and on to the next party. He didn’t see the point of all this drawn out crap. A fast spike of adrenaline was all he needed, none of this dramatic bullshit. /Call me simple. A simple man with simple kinks. Do the one and on to the next. No frills./

He didn’t need the ‘art’ to get his high. He wasn’t so jaded as all that; unlike some old vamps. 

Spike shook his head as he surveyed the girl who was letting herself be destroyed by his grandsire. “Let me give you a bit of advice, girl. I’ve known the bastard for a lot longer than you. Don’t let him destroy you. It’s what he wants. You’ll be giving him the thing he’s hoping for. Destroying you will be his sex. Whatever you’ve already given him? To him, it’s just the open door he’ll use to wind you up tight and tear you to bits. If you’ve let yourself be seduced by him, it was only, on his part, so he could twist you up and make you another of his art installations. And I’ve seen enough of those over the years.” He felt his lips tighten. “Better to just end it all in a clean fight. I promise you.” And turning, he made to leave.

“You’re just saying that because you want to fight me,” she called after him. “I’ve heard of you. You fight Slayers.”

He came to a halt, his back still to her, and glanced back over his shoulder. “I didn’t come here to fight you,” he informed her softly, over his shoulder. “Wouldn’t’ve come back here at all, could I have avoided it, but Dru did, and that meant I had to.” He shrugged it off. “This is a family quarrel. I came because my sire stands to be hurt by him. I only wanted to get her free of Angelus…” 

“Well then, get her back from him.” Her eyes, in spite of herself, darted to the casement window, flinched away. “The ho’s trying to get him to do something creepy. I heard them talking about some kind of puzzle, something about a ‘judge’…”

“Yeah, you should look into that. Sounds like your speed. I wish you luck. Stick to that, and don’t let him wind you up.” Spike grinned mercilessly, and snugged his fag between his lips. “You deserve better, just for bein’ what you are.”

The girl sounded as if she doubted what she was hearing. “You really didn’t come here to fight me this time?”

He started away again. “Not in the slightest.”

“Why?” she demanded, sounding offended. “I’ll have you know I can kick your ass!”

/Aw, now the poor little Slayer’s feelings are hurt./ Poor wee chit had probably had the hell of a night, between whatever had gone down between her and Angelus, and now seeing the sod making love to Dru. Having the Slayer of Slayers tell her he wasn’t interested was no doubt the icing on the cake. 

Wasn’t to be helped though, and a faint smile touched his lips. “Not about you. I have an entirely other Slayer to worry about, is the thing. One that’s not you.”

Nothing said he had to be polite. He _was_ evil, after all.

He started off again, knew she could barely see him anymore by now. 

“Wait, you have a _what?”_

He ignored her query to vanish into the darkness, and left her to figure out what she was going to do about Peaches. He doubted she’d go storming in there to try to stake him and Dru. Not tonight, no matter how offended she was about what they were doing. Certainly not while they were in the midst of it. Not in her present state of mind. 

His sire was safe for the next twenty-four, he thought, whatever the local Slayer’s fit of pique. She could sort out her personal issues with Angelus later, and he could use that time, perhaps, to pull Dru aside and see if maybe he could try to extricate her before she ended up dust, all bound up in this nonsense Peaches had started by picking a very personal fight with a Slayer.

*******

Spike was in a weird mood when he got back to the motel to turn in; just barely beating the dawn, by the way, as he let himself into the room. “How’s Dru?” Buffy demanded, shooting awake as the door creaked open. “Did you find her?”

“Oh, yeah,” he answered, sounding about as moody as he had been in the car all the way up here. “As expected, she’s cozied up with Angelus.” He tugged off his duster and slapped it down over the back of the threadbare chair over by the curtained window. “Sorry, Slayer; didn’t mean to wake you.”

Rubbing her eyes a little, Buffy sat up, the fugly bedspread and sheets falling away from the t-shirt she’d worn to bed; a relic of her stay at the warehouse. Her blouse from earlier, while still bloodstained, was at least somewhat washed out, and by now, probably even mostly dry after her hurried rinse-job in cold sink water. Spike wouldn’t even have to look at it and get all guilty again, since as far as she could tell, he didn’t seem to need to use the bathroom; or, at least, he hadn’t the entire time they’d driven up here, nor once they’d landed. Hence leaving it hanging in the dinky shower. /Out of sight, out of mind./ “I’m kind of a light sleeper when it comes to vampires. No big.”

His shoulders tensed slightly, then relaxed as he nodded, his back still to her. “I’ll leave out some cash. Order yourself something to eat, yeah? When you get hungry? I’ll just need a few hours’ kip, then we’ll figure out our next step.” 

Buffy hesitated, but she needed to know. “Did you, um, run into this other Slayer you told me about?”

He turned slowly. “Yeah. She was out hunting. Do me a favor, though, will you luv? Don’t go out lookin’ for trouble when it comes to her. Not yet, at least. She’s a bit frayed at the mo’, what with Angelus stirring up trouble, and now Dru in town; not to mention yours truly. Doubt she’d take kindly to running into another Slayer on top of everything else. Not when she’s no doubt been told that such a thing’s impossible…”

“She’s not the only one.”

“Yeah, well.” He made a weird sort of face, and turned toward the other bed, and it was then that Buffy recognized by the slight sag to his features that, vampire or not, he was exhausted. An exhaustion of the heart, she thought, rather than of the body; a weariness of the mind. He’d been through a lot in the last day or so. The last month and change, really. He’d been running himself ragged trying to make everything work, and it had all fallen in on him like a house of cards last night. 

He needed rest. “I’ll chill,” she told him, and in that moment, she meant it. “Play solitaire or something.” 

He eyed her for a sec. Nodded. Turned to rummage briefly in one of his probably a hundred duster pockets, came up with a worn-looking deck of Bee playing cards. Slapped it down on the table. “See you on the flipside, Slayer.” And, tugging his belt loose one-handed, his back already to her again, he yanked down the sheets on the other bed, kicked off his boots, gave the entire ensemble another hard pull to free up the tucked-in military corners of the thing… and sort of collapsed, face-first, onto the far side. 

/Well, alright-y then./

The trouble was, even if she really had meant it, she wasn’t made to sit still. Never had been meant to. It just wasn’t in her make-up. 

At first she tried to go back to sleep. She could have used another couple of hours, after all. But after about an hour of tossing and turning, she gave that up and started a kind of abbreviated morning routine, sandy-eyed, but feeling a lot better than she had last night, even on short sleep-rations. When none of her furtive rustling around remotely drew even a twitch out of the cashed-out vampire next to her—seriously, he slept like the dead, no pun intended—she decided to just do her thing. So she went all out. Took the shower she’d been too beat to try for last night (after all, she’d been feeling kind of ick since the whole covered-in-blood deal). Pulled the phone off the table and used the full length of the cord and the little local phone book to step outside and order take-out from a nearby place that delivered breakfast-y type stuff (about on the level of Dennys, but with better toast). Tried to play cards while she waited, but that just ended up making her feel like she was making too much noise (even though Spike seriously didn’t move a muscle, no matter what she did). Got antsy and finally went out onto the walkway and did some jogging around the thing (until someone put their head out of one of the doors and told her to lay off because it was only freaking seven AM and they were about to complain to the manager). Met the delivery person for her food and took that edge off. Did some calisthenics-type stuff (stretches, that kind of thing; mostly stuff Spike had taught her). 

And was seriously about to lose her mind by nine.

/Maybe I’ll just go walk around town a little. Just to familiarize myself with the place. I mean, it’s not like I’m gonna run into anyone supernatural at this time of morning, right? All the demon-y types are gonna be out, like him, which means the local Slayer-chick’s probably gonna be sleeping it off too, right?

She wouldn’t be breaking her promise. It wasn’t like she would be looking for trouble or anything. /I’m not going to be looking for anyone or anything. I’m just going for a walk./ 

Nodding to herself in a convincing manner, she suited action to thought. Grabbed up a couple of protein bars, shoved them into a back pocket. Her motel room key in the other, she left her vampire a note, and bailed. She figured she’d be back long before he woke up and was ready to make a plan for tonight. 

***

Cordy was seriously offended. Not that she had taken anything that Angel—or Angelus, whatever—had said seriously, but look. If Angel was trying to get her to work with him to take down the Master just last night, why was he hooking up with Ms. Crazypants Ho literally the next day? And when did she get into town with her bleached, fashion-challenged boyfriend, again, anyway? 

What even was this? Old-home-week for the Aurelians? 

On top of that, what was that crap Drusilla was spouting about putting someone back together again? Someone no one could take apart, after that? That didn’t sound good. /A judge, of some sort?/

/A judge of what?/ 

Well, that was definitely Giles territory. She’d let him and the gang figure it out. Normally she’d help do some of the research, but right now she had bigger fish to fry. 

For one thing—and she was seriously gonna have to hit Giles up for this one—Bleach-Boy had said something about there being another Slayer, which, just, what? 

No. Not a thing. /Not especially in _my_ town. Just, no./

“You are certain that he said there was another Slayer, Cordelia?”

“For the seventh time, yeah.” She was fighting to stay awake. She’d been up for twenty-four hours at this point, after all. “Anything on this ‘judge’ thing yet?” And, in spite of herself, she cracked a yawn.

“You should crash,” Xander put in, sounding mildly concerned. “You’re not gonna be able to fight this guy, if he’s all evil now, if you’re asleep on your feet.”

“Nothing on anything called a ‘judge’, as yet… But it’s simply impossible that there could be another Slayer, is the thing. There is but ‘One Girl In All the World’…”

Cordy waved off Giles’ repetitive reassurances that Spike the Invader had to be full of shit. Shook her head, trying to bring herself back to full awakeness, and gripped harder around the coffee Xander had fetched her earlier, on the run he’d done for them all to the Espresso Pump. “No, I’m good. I’ve got this.” She hardened her voice, pumped some certitude into it; some command-presence. “Just focus on the research, Xander.”

“Uh, okay, but…”

Giles’ eyes on hers were astute behind his thick glasses. “Xander does rather have a point, Cordelia. Young or no, Slayer strength or no, you must rest sometime, or…”

She zeroed in on him with her fiercest glare. “You think I could sleep, right now?” she demanded. “My guy just turned into his evil-twin-self after we finally slept together, which, barrels of fun, right? And then, his, like, crazed ex just came into town, and they’re close as peas in a pod again, because why not. And now the ex’s ex says there’s another Slayer here too, because that’s possible… and you want me to take a _siesta?”_

“I suppose I concede that it might be rather difficult to relax, considering,” Giles answered after an awkward moment spent with his eyes averted over her left shoulder. 

“Ya _think?”_ Cordy glared into her stake-hand and took a hard swig at her cappuccino in hopes it would somehow perform magic for her.

It didn’t. 

Cordy sighed and shoved herself to her feet. “I need to walk. Clear my head. Get the blood flowing. Beep me if anything good shows up in the books, okay?”

“Uh, right…” Xander answered, startled.

“You, uh… sure you’re okay to go wandering around right now?” Willow asked, speaking up for the first time, pretty much, since she’d come back from the abandoned mansion however many hours ago with her infodump.

Cordy shrugged. “It’s not like they’re gonna be up and around right now.” She waved her hand in the general direction of the light coming in the high windows over the cage. “Daytime, right?”

“Oh. Right.”

Turning on her heel, anxious and jangling with caffeine and exhaustion, Cordelia Chase headed for the great outdoors.

***

Sunnydale was a cute town, she’d give it that. It was no downtown LA, obviously, but it had a couple nice little boutiques and things. Buffy thought she might even enjoy shopping in that little section dedicated to the outdoor mall enthusiast. And there was a little area over to one side that was all dancing and clubs, that seemed to include a few high-end sorts of shoe stores and things. Some nice little cafes… 

There was probably a rougher, demony-er side of town, too, based on what Spike had said about the place, but she wasn’t seeing it from where she was. 

She also didn’t feel any demon-y vibes around right now, which made sense since it was like nine-thirty in the morning on a mid-week kinda day. Nothing much for demons to be doing right now, she figured. Just nice, walk-in-the-sun kinda weather. 

She had a stake in her boot, of course, just in case, but she mostly luxuriated in the feeling of being free to wander. She’d had very little of that of late. Just a couple of days really, out of months. Heck, since she’d been home with her mother, she’d only left the apartment to walk around her mom’s new neighborhood a few times; just to feel the fresh air and all that, but not too far. It had freaked Mom out to know she was out on her own recognizance like that, without her knowing where her incident-prone daughter might be. Which, Buffy knew it would take her mother a while to relax again, and that it wasn’t about trust so much as it was about fear, _for_ her, but still. It was nice to be free to move about the city without everyone being so terrified for her. /God, after this she’s gonna totally bring down the gavel again, isn’t she?/ 

Which really, really sucked, and kinda made her want to run away, because her life was just… what it was. She was a Slayer. It wasn’t like she had control over the things that happened to her because of what she was—attack on her high school as case in point—and that had led to over eight months of enforced stillness. To the point where she was going crazy for a _walk._ A little change of scene here and there; just the feeling that she could go places when she wanted to. That she had that power; to make that decision.

Everyone wanted to protect her. Protect her into stillness again, and she couldn’t take it. And, maybe she was being a little irresponsible in response to that overreaction, but she was going nuts, here. Even the thought of how her mother was going to react when she got home again was making her do things now that were probably not the best (like, Spike wouldn’t probably overly approve of this little jaunt)… But also, what the hell, right? She was a damn Slayer. She could handle herself. 

Breathing deep of the bright, almost-crisp breeze of November, Buffy turned a corner, leaving the quaint little downtown area. And, feeling hunted, she broke into a nice, brisk jog; just for the pure physical freedom of it. She’d covered about a mile and a half by now, was only just beginning to lose herself in actual, thoughtless relaxation. Of feeling free, of being the mistress of her own destiny for a damn change. 

Another half-mile, maybe a mile, and she’d turn around and head back, feeling more awake and more rested all at once, and much more capable of surviving a day cooped up in that motel.

Except, just when she got a nice rhythm going, jogging down a nice, long, palm-lined drag called Whiteoak, she ran almost face-first into a girl with long, dark hair and an athletic build, running in her direction like a metronome, expression exhausted and set. And, something about her made Buffy’s spidey-sense tingle oddly. Not like a vamp. Weirdly… blank. 

She didn’t know what this girl was, but she was a _something_. 

Moving smoothly, and without breaking stride, Buffy ducked, and came up with her stake.

The other girl did the same. 

Before Buffy quite knew what she was doing, she had her stake at the tall girl’s throat… and the tall girl, vice-versa, and, oh.

Had she just met this other Slayer she’d heard so much about?

Oh, man. Spike was gonna be so mad at her.

* * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
So, notes: Spike's speech in "Never Leave Me" about making girls cry, and what he was hinting at there? Seemed seriously out of character to me, especially considering the later stuff in AtS about not sparing a glance at his victims, and his MO compared to Angelus. It always sounded to me like something he did under Angelus' tutelage. Like something he was forced to do as the submissive partner to a narcissistic serial killer, that wasn't his idea of fun at all, something he wouldn't choose to do at all (and probably didn't) later under his own steam, because it just doesn't sound his style. I really think after the soul forced him to review what used to be just a big whirl, he ended up hating himself for having been weak enough to have gone along with Angelus in those cases, and for having reveled in whatever Angelus wanted of him, back then, which probably contributed to their relationship tension post-soul. (Spike wanting to take responsibility for his own misdeeds, but also hating Angel for the things he might not have done if he hadn't been taught to do them as Angelus' "mirror".)  
  
Hm, what else?  
As some readers might already have picked up, where I have Spike and Buffy echoing Hades and Persephone here, I couldn't help but see Cordelia and Angel echoing Orpheus and Eurydice (I also very much enjoyed the gender-swap involved, because their relative power positions make me uber-happy). More Greek mythos to come in this thing, because I'm obsessed.  
  
Yeah, and, y'all might've notice that both our Slayers are feeling pent up and anxious and in need of physical release, what with one thing and the other. I had an entirely other cliffhanger in mind for this chapter, but this is what they decided for me, so... HEE! We shall see where this takes us!


	14. Order Up!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, something I'd been planning to draw out a bit more happened much more abruptly than I'd been expecting, in this chapter. Wolf_shadoe is awesome and let me know it was as shocking to a reader as it was to me, lol.
> 
> (I'm just here typing stuff. By this time I only know vague outlines.)
> 
> Also, when the hell did this fic get up over 100k?! I thought of this as a short-ish story. Srsly. *confused*

** Sec.14C:  ** ** Order-Up! **

For the record, Buffy wouldn’t have had much of a chance against this girl if she hadn’t been training with Spike the last couple of weeks. The chick had clearly been doing the slaying thing regularly for a while. She was disciplined and relaxed and she knew what she was doing; whereas Buffy herself had had, in real-life terms, about three weeks of Slayer-ness under her belt, broken up by months of drugged incarceration and sitting around staring out of a window. 

It wouldn’t really have been much of a fight if she hadn’t had a Spike.

Lucky for her, she had. And, okay; sparring with Spike, in those few times he’d allowed it, had been a great primer for how to fight dirty. Not only that, but she was in shape again. And honestly? She was kind of starved for some action, right now, after however long cooped up again. Forced inaction was her kryptonite, now, after the hospital. It made her crazy on some deep, terrified, instinctive level, made her need to stay in motion; to fight back against the world. Three days in the apartment with Mom, then the car and the motel, and she was dying to kick something’s butt. Especially now that her instincts were all teed off over the whole ‘somehow a vamp got too close and got a taste of me’ thing.

And, like… there was something else going on here, too; some kind of weird insistence in the back of her mind that this girl should just  _ not _ exist at all. That there was something wrong about this situation. That they should fight until there was only one of them left. That everything about them both being here was incorrect. There was this niggling feeling that Buffy was in the wrong place and time… but also this enormous, surging urge to destroy the girl in front of her and  _ make _ it her right time and place. Which was bizarre. 

Even weirder, along with it came this even more insane feeling that to fight her would make Buffy feel more… complete? Fixed, in some really random and perfect way that didn’t make any sense at all.

The moves flowed unconsciously. Everything was about instinct. Everything about the fight was right, and necessary, and gave her enough of an edge that she somehow slid into that… that  _ thing _ , that sometimes happened. That thing that had happened there at the end, against Lothos and his boys, where she lost her higher brain function, stopped thinking, and just moved the way her body wanted to move. Where it became like… some sort of dance, actually; something that happened without recourse to thought or reflection.

It had happened when she was sparring with Spike; more than a few times. That was when he had lit up like a Christmas tree and gotten super excited about the fight, said things like,  _ “That’s right, Slayer, time to tango!” _ or whatever craziness, before wading in no holds barred.

The dark-haired girl, who at first had seemed kind of superior about things, started to look startled as the fight picked up. As it continued, though, her expression set and she got all determined. Her moves went all firm and hardcore, and she settled in for the duration. 

It became a seriously fun workout. Buffy was loving it. She was dewed with sweat, felt warmed up in every single muscle. This was as fun as fighting with Spike. It was fantastic, she could do this all day; every threat parried, every kick ducked, every lunge blocked, furious greeny-brown eyes glaring into hers as they stood locked together, chests heaving. 

“Who  _ are _ you?” the girl eventually demanded, sounding more miffed than anything.

Buffy smiled at her and shrugged one shoulder as she stepped away from the momentary impasse. “My guess? The Slayer who died for about thirty seconds so you could be Called.”

The tall girl blinked at her for a long moment or two, then shook her head. “No. No way. It doesn’t work like that.”

“Apparently it did this time.”

“That’s bullshit. Listen; I don’t know who you are, but you can’t just come into  _ my _ town…”

“I’m not gonna be here long,” Buffy interrupted the incipient rant. The girl seemed like the seriously imperious, beauty queen type. No use getting into some kind of verbal brawl. “Just came to grab a missing vampire from LA, and we’ll be on our way.”

The other girl’s eyes narrowed sharply in her direction. “This missing vampire wouldn’t happen to be a ho named Drusilla, would she?”

Buffy straightened, dropped her fists. “A, she’s not a ho, she’s just… troubled. And B, yes, do you know where she is?” She couldn’t keep the relief from her voice. For one, if this girl could tell her where to find Dru, maybe Buffy could come up with some kind of plan to capture her and drag her back to Spike’s car while the vamp chick was sleeping, and they could be out before nightfall. /Spike can’t be too pissed at me if I get this all wrapped up quick, right?/

“Oh, yeah, I know where she is,” the tall girl ground out, sounding incredibly frustrated. She shoved her long, dark hair back from her eyes, glaring off over her right shoulder. Her expression went weirdly bleak and vindictive all at once. “She’s hooked up with  _ my _ guy right now, totally taking advantage because he’s having a personality clash…”

Buffy held up her hand to forestall any further ranting. “Wait, hang on. You’re dating  _ Angelus?” _

The head snapped back around, and the glaring was pointed at her, now. “How the hell is that any of  _ your _ business?”

Buffy lifted her brows, shrugged. “I dunno. I guess it isn’t. It just seems sort of a big gamble, since the guy’s supposedly kind of a dick; at least according to the other members of his former nest.”

Something in the other girl’s posture broke. “He is kind of a dick… as Angelus. But when he has his soul, he’s… He’s my guy.”

Buffy was utterly nonplussed at that. “When he has his huh?”

“Never mind. Long story.” But the bleak thing was spreading in the girl’s face and stance, and now Buffy could see that she looked… uber exhausted, and very very hurt, under the surface of all the fighty anger. 

Buffy frowned, studying the girl. “You okay? You look beat.”

The head snapped around, and now she was rigid once more as she glared back at Buffy. “Why the hell do  _ you _ care?” she demanded again.

Buffy shrugged off this attack as well. She’d probably react the same way if something had gone wrong between herself and Spike. /Which it easily could, since, yanno. Slayer-vampire relations. And we’re just friends./ She could only imagine how hard it could be to get along if you were… 

Well. “I mean, we’re both Slayers, right? That technically means we’re on the same side. That we kinda want the same things.” It sounded reasonable enough to her mind. “Maybe we can help each other. You know; you help me and my vampire get Dru out of your town, we go quietly, you only have to deal with Angelus…”

The girl eyed her for a moment as if studying her, then sighed and did an about-face. “C’mon. You can check out their hideout, if you want. I doubt it’s gonna do us any good. Even with two of us, I doubt we could take ‘em.” And she broke into a jog, heading back the way she’d come.

/Okay, fatalistic, much?/  
  
Buffy followed in her wake, frowning as they flashed past sleepy residential drives. “Why’s that? Should be easy, right? They’re out, I tie up Dru, you tie up this Angelus, I go get Spike to bring his car, you do whatever with your vampire. We’re out, end of story, right?”

The other girl made a face as she turned left up a long, quiet street called ‘Crawford’. "Somehow I don’t think it’s gonna be that easy.”

***

It went well enough at first. From Cordy's perspective the new girl was small, and maybe a little nuts, but she was definitely good in a fight. Cordelia felt backed up for the first time since she’d lost Angel. In a different way, too. Like there was a part of her close by that had been… missing, somehow? Was that weird?

She still felt like this was a bad idea, but at the same time, why not try, right?

They snuck into the mansion under cover of sunlight, Cordy steeling herself for what she’d see once they were in there. And hell yes, it hurt to see them, next to each other on the bed, the room full of the smells of sex, the other vampire with her skirts all over the place and half up around her waist, and Angel… /No,  _ Angelus _ / she reminded herself, with his pants on but open, sprawled out next to his scion where he’d passed out after they’d…

Next to her, the new girl winced. “I’m glad Spike’s not here to see this,” she murmured very, very quietly. 

Cordy shrugged through the doorway, made a cutting gesture across her throat. Vamp hearing being what it was, no reason to announce their presence. They had found some old rope off to one side in one of the rooms. It might do for the chick. Drusilla. As for Angelus… 

Cordy had found some old shackles in the place, lying off to one side of the main room, by the mantle. She had absolutely zero interest in guessing why Angelus had brought them in here, since she was about one hundred and ten percent sure they hadn’t come with the house. It might look like a castle, but it was still, at the core, a California McMansion. Chains were definitely optional. /He’s probably planning on bringing people back here to…/ 

Her mind shied away from the thought as she crept closer to her vampire’s somnolent form and tried not to look at his state of dishabille. Maybe once she got him chained up she could zip up his pants, so she didn’t have to look at…

She got one shackle on his wrist before he woke. The other Slayer was still working on tightening the noose she had rapidly flung around Drusilla’s wrists when they were both arrested by Angelus’ voice, echoing in the room in the low light. 

He was chuckling. “I know you’re into topping me, Cordy, but I never thought you were this kinky. At least, not yet. I thought we’d have to work our way up to this kind of entertainment.”

/Oh, jeez./ He wasn’t even fighting her. He was just looking up at her from the bed, all messed-up clothes and snarky amusement, with one hand in a shackle attached to a chain in her hand. “Be a good boy, Angelus, and let us take you into custody,” she answered, shooting for firm, no-nonsense.

“Not a good boy. But if you recall, I did offer you a deal. It’s still good.” His free hand caught her butt, tried to drag her closer. “We’d make a hell of a team. Take down Nest, rule this town. All you’d have to do is…” His grin intensified into a leer. “Let yourself have what you know you want…”

/Oh, you bastard./ “I  _ don’t _ want  _ you _ ,” she insisted, pulling away even as too much of her kind of wanted to move closer. Instead she brandished the stake she’d pulled from her cleavage.

“Aw, the Slayer’s feeling playful…”

“Daddy’s going to be so very confused when he sees the Sunshine, back here in the darkness…”

Cordelia’s head jerked around at the sing-songy tones from the other vampire in the bed. But not as quickly as Angelus did. “Dru, what…” And then his nostrils flared. “There’s no way!” 

Cordy was amazed when, out of nowhere in the low light, he narrowed his eyes, stared in shock at the other Slayer, and whispered, “Well, well. This is a surprise… Buffy.”

***

Spike woke abruptly, to the strangest feeling that something was wrong. It came with the unsettled feeling in his blood that said someone was attacking his family, his nest; that Dru was in danger, his grandsire was in danger, they were being ambushed. That…

Springing to life to sit up on the heels of his hands, he stared around the dim room, nostrils flaring as he took in the scent of the place. The time of day (approximately eleven), the occupants (the scents were stale. Buffy was gone. What the fuck?), the general ambience. 

He was out of bed and swinging to his feet within an instant, to tighten his belt and grab for the duster as the urgency of the moment attacked him full-force. Something was happening to Dru, and to fucking Angelus. And Buffy, the idiot child, was gone. 

Fuck.

He threw the duster over his head and pounded out of the room, down toward the DeSoto at a gallop, trailing smoke.

***

Cordy used Angelus’ moment of shock to back away, still brandishing her stake. How the hell did Angelus know this other Slayer? And what the hell kind of name was  _ Buffy? _

“Persephone’s allied to my knight, now; to the Underworld… and my daddy’s lost his chance at the sun. But he’s all wrapped up in the sad sad songs and the fine waltz he’ll write to dance with his Song-mistress. She’ll make him dance, dance, dance to her tunes. Everyone must dance their own dance, their right dance with their right partners. And it’s up to Hecate to do away with the false prophet, trying to lure the players away from their proper crossroads…”

The other girl, Buffy, backed away as Drusilla shook her hands free of the as-yet-untied knots and rose from the bed. Straight upward, like a mummy rising from a coffin, all perfect posture like she was at a tea party, then swung herself from the bed with her skirts falling down, and tilted her head at them like she was a bird studying mice. “Then she can See, See everything, from here till forever; See the right things…” Her very weird gaze turned to meet Cordelia’s. “This time round, you’re not meant for visions.”

Cordelia pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I have plenty of weird dreams, if that’s what you’re talking about, Ms. Crazypants…”

The dark head tilted the other way, then turned to Buffy, examining her. “My Spike will be very cross with you. He’s always so very cross when he’s afraid the ones he loves will be hurt.”

Buffy blinked at her. “I know he’ll be mad I left the motel, but…” She halted, looking startled. “Loves?” she asked, sounding amazed. 

“Little Slayer is very slow.”

To one side, Angelus was following Drusilla’s pronouncements with interest. At this, though, he frowned. “Wait. Buffy’s been with  _ Spike _ this whole time?”

“Plucked her ripe from the tree once the farmers stopped tending the orchard, thinking the fruit withered…”

Angelus frowned at this, looking mildly perturbed. “But that doesn’t make any damn sense, Dru! He doesn’t  _ help _ Slayers. He kills them!”

“My Spike’s lost in the Sunshine. He’s Hades now; ready to give all his riches to have but a third of the year with the springtime.”

To Cordy’s shock, Angelus sounded territorial at this; almost jealous.  _ “No _ .”

Okay, this was crap. “Listen, Buster,” she informed her vampire flatly, calling his eyes back to hers. “I don’t know—or, really, care—what you know about this situation with this girl and this Spike guy, but you and me have some unfinished business. So I suggest you drop it; because one thing you are  _ not _ getting out of this whole sitch is some kind of Slayer  _ menage a trois _ .”

At her words, Drusilla began laughing; a high, tinkling, mad laugh. “So many things the Slayer does not know…”

Angelus’ voice settled back into low, confident, smug tones as he looked her over. “Jealous, are we, Cordy? Territorial? I like that.” Reaching out, he ran a caressing hand up Drusilla’s arm; a move designed, Cordy knew, to piss her off. “I’m surprised you still feel that way after…”

She lifted her stake, wishing she had a crossbow on hand. “Stop fucking with me, Angelus, or I’ll dust you. Don’t think I won’t.”

“Oh,” he breathed, and his eyes shone at her threat. It was like he was getting off on it. For the first time, he shifted position to swing upright on the bed and eye her, all excited and gleaming. “I’ll fuck with you, Cordy, and you’ll like it. And then once we’re…”

“Alright, alright, big guy. Man, you’ve made such a mess of this…”

Everything stopped. They all pivoted or turned to stare as a new contender entered the ring; some short, wince-y looking dude in a fedora.

/Who the hell is this guy?/

***

Buffy had spent the last few minutes flinching as she listened to the other Slayer have what apparently boiled down to a lovers’ quarrel with this Angelus dude—who, by the way, seemed super-skeezy, and why did she sleep with him, anyway?—all the while trying to keep Dru in sight. She kept her mouth shut for most of it and a bead on the second vampire with her stake (not that she wanted to use it. It would wreck Spike if she did end up having to do it), and just prayed this hot mess would work itself out somehow.   
  
/Man, I should’ve just stayed at the motel./ 

Mostly she was still just reeling from the realization that this Angelus guy somehow knew her. That he recognized her. /Does that mean he was in LA when I was slaying, before? Or that he came to the hospital, too, like Spike did, but left me there? Or…/

Her head whirled, as well, with the stuff Dru had said. Most of it was crazy-talk, of course… but Spike had always acted like it was important to take the stuff she said seriously. It was just, like, impossible to ferret out what the heck the chick meant by this babble. More ‘Persephone’ stuff, and something about… having the right dance partners? Which, whatever, and something about crossroads, which… Didn’t that mean making decisions? 

Buffy had caught enough to realize that she wasn’t the only one who had weird dreams, which meant maybe that was just a Slayer thing. Which, she vaguely recalled Merrick telling her that Slayers had prophetic dreams sometimes—that the stuff she saw in them was past-life stuff from other Slayers, and stuff like that—so she supposed that kind of made sense. 

Everything had been derailed, though, once Dru had claimed that Spike was so protective over Buffy because he… well, loved her. 

Surely she meant ‘cared a lot about’, though, right? Not…

She’d been so busy spinning over that one that she’d mostly missed the rest. Which was fine, since it was just more ‘sunshine’ and ‘springtime’ stuff, anyway. That, and the other Slayer freaking out at that dick Angelus, because she had some kind of weird idea that he was trying to mack on both of them, which, just, no.

Also, for the record? The way this ‘Cordy’ interacted with Angelus was weirdly adult for someone around her own age. It was bizarre. 

Before Buffy could recover enough to get a word in edgewise, though, a completely skeezy-looking dude in a hat showed up in the room and started talking in some kind of New York accent, because this night couldn’t get any weirder.

“I mean, you know this is all wrong, right?” Frowning, the tiny guy sidled further into the room, hands in his jacket pockets and looking up at all of them from under the brim of his hat, like he thought he was some kind of gangster from the 1940’s. 

Buffy thought he moved like a boxer or something. All… tight and prepared and aware. And his face was kind of pinched and squinty, like he was ready for everything and anything to jump out at him at any given moment. 

When his eyes fell on her, she shivered. His gaze felt weird. Otherworldly. “And you, kid. What the hell? You’re supposed to be dead.”

Buffy frowned, fighting to shake off whatever it was. “Sorry to disappoint you?”

Shaking his head, the dude turned his head to recapture Angelus with his narrow-eyed, assessing glare. “Man. And here I thought I had everything all set up just right. Jeez. Why’d you have to go and fall for her? It was supposed to be so straightforward, you know? Bang, bam, boom. Big character arc, she blooms into the one we’ve all been waiting for, you motivate her, she motivates you, you two do the things you’re expected to do… Instead, look at you two. Both of you all fucked up.” His eyes flickered over to Cordy, looking her up and down. “You must really have it, babe.”

Cordy stared back, looking disgusted. “Look. I don’t know who the hell you are, but you can’t just come barging in on our private chat and…”

“Beg to differ, kiddo, since I set this whole thing up. You guys owe me your entire situation, here; from top to bottom.” The pinched face twitched, like he was uncomfortable within himself even standing in the room. “This is my deal, not yours.”

They stood deadlocked, uncertain, every one of them, what to say in reply to this remarkable statement. Buffy opened her mouth to break the stalemate… but she never got the chance. 

“You’re pretty damn full of yourself, whoever the bloody hell you are.”

Spike had come on the scene. 

“Oh, jeez, it’s the other one.” Pivoting on his heel, the dude with the hat blinked up at the third member of the vamp-family, then sighed heavily. “Man, why didn’t anyone tell me  _ you _ were all wrapped up in this, too?”

Angelus tilted his head slightly to study the tiny guy, looking interested. “I thought you were Mr. Messenger for the Powers on High, Whistler. Shouldn’t you know… well, everything?”

The little guy—Whistler? What a name—turned back to Angelus, looking discomfited. “Some things can still kinda come from left field, depending on who’s pulling the str…”

“Lying, he is. Does some things according to his duty, but in the end, he is working for other Masters.”

Whistler went absolutely pale, swiveled to stare at Dru… and froze.

“Lying dolphin is a bad, bad porpoise,” Dru trilled on, and rose, swinging her hips, to sidle past Buffy in the newcomer’s direction. Her hands rose above her head, twirling, so that the rope Buffy had attempted to use to bind the mad vampire trickled away, down to the bed and slithered to the floor. She didn’t appear to notice it as she moved to circle the embattled-looking, wide-eyed fedora-dude. “People believe the dolphins are harmless and sweet, but they aren’t. Not even to their own. They rape, and they murder, and they do it for fun. And to others…” She bumped fedora-dude with her hip; going around, around, eyes drilling down into his. “The pixies say you broke your gessa. You’re no longer Theirs. And you don’t work for the Wild. You belong to some Other; some Outside Thing that wants to come and gobble, gobble, gobble us all up…”

The little guy seemed to shrink in on himself. “You’re lying,” he hissed, but the lines on his face had deepened to canyons, and he was so pale now he looked like a sheet in the low light. 

“They’ve found you out. They know you’re no longer Theirs. They’ve removed Their protection.” A slow, tight smile crossed Drusilla’s face, and her green eyes blazed. “They’ve found a new vessel, haven’t they?” Long fingers slid up, along the center of her chest. Flung outward, toward the sky. “And you…” Her hand flashed out suddenly, one finger extended like a claw. And slashed, fast as lightning, across his throat, her voice vindictive. “You’re  _ lost _ .”

Whistler’s hand shot up, his mouth wide open, his expression dumbfounded, as blood gushed from his gashed throat; a weird, greeny-blue blood. “I… Ak…” he protested. He couldn’t seem to make any real sounds anymore. Ones that made sense anyway.

He keeled over backward, in slow-motion, to the mansion’s hardwood flooring. Thrashed a little, and went still, while his weird blood gouted out to pool around him. A strange, almost fishy smell filled the air, and so, okay, that guy was definitely not human.

“Dru!” Angelus exclaimed, and then began to chuckle; broad, loud peals of laughter. “That’s my girl!”

Dru swiveled, flashing a broad smile at Angelus. “Daddy won’t be happy once he knows what’s to come. But his little girl is glad he’s proud of her now.”

“Oh, Christ,” Spike muttered, and his eyes rose to catch Buffy’s. And, oh, man, they were tight as he met her gaze. “What the fuck, Slayer?” he demanded.

/Well, okay./ “It seemed like a good idea at the time?” she admitted, slowly backing away from the bed. Though, maybe, during the craziness of now, they might still be able to take the two vamps, between the three of them?

Of course, that would require getting Spike on the same page as herself, and, also, this Cordy chick, and they’d lost their element of surprise. And since the whole plan had kind of rested on it being an ambush kind of thing, probably not. 

She glanced over at the other Slayer. Cordy exhaled hard, shrugged, turned to Angelus, who was grinning evilly at them, looking way delighted. “Catch you later, Angelus,” she murmured. And, pivoting on her heel, she headed for the door, stepping over the dead whatever-he-was with the fedora as she did so.

With a sigh, Buffy followed suit. As she drew level with Spike, she glanced up at him. “Can we save the I told you so’s for later? It totally wasn’t, like, a planned thing. It was just this whole huge accident of timing.”

His mouth writhed. He was furious… but Drusilla was right. She could see it now. It was because he’d been terrified she’d get hurt, or worse. “Fine,” he snapped and, with a last glance into the room, fell in behind her.

“Be seeing you, Cordy,” Angelus called after them, sounding smug. “Be good,  _ Spike _ .”

Something tensed in Spike, so hard Buffy felt it at her back, and he halted briefly at the door. “You’re one to bloody talk, Peaches” he called back over his shoulder. “How long did you play it straight, here?”

“How long you gonna do the same, before you can get into this one’s pants?” Angelus called back.

Buffy was shook. She started to hyperventilate. There was no way. No way in hell, right? 

Spike’s sharp, caustic tones brought her back to herself. “I’m not you, you git. I don’t break my toys. I’m in it for a good fight, not a soddin’ art installation.” He kicked into motion again. His fingers, lightly brushing her shoulder, brought her back to herself.

And Buffy could breathe once more, as she started into step.

Drifting in from behind them, Drusilla’s voice added its own strain of confusion. “My poor knight. So very, very lost…”

***

Cordelia watched, curious, as the strange vampire dodged into his weird old car to get out of the sun, little contrails of smoke following him, and nodded to the other Slayer. “C’mon, Buffy. Let’s get the bloody hell out of here. We’ll figure out what to do next once we’re back at the motel, yeah?” His voice was harsh, frustrated.

Buffy hesitated, then turned to meet her eyes. “Look; I don’t know…”

Cordy felt zero hesitation about next steps. She was tired—more than; exhausted—and really just over all of this. “This involves all of us by now. I don’t know if he’s helping you because he has a soul, or what…”

“Huh?”

But it didn’t matter. The girl had a vampire who was helping her, which meant he was involved. Which meant he was going to keep screwing up the situation unless she got them all on the same page. “…But either way, you two are here now, and you’re involved, so you need to come with me to meet my Watcher. We all need to compare notes…”

The other girl flinched away so fast that Cordy, who really had thought that a pretty straightforward proposition, was kind of amazed. “Look. No offense, but I trusted one Watcher. One. And he died to save me. The rest are jerks who left me for dead for months, so thanks but no thanks…”

Cordy narrowed her eyes. “Look, I don’t know what your damage is…” She so didn’t have time for it, whatever it might be. “…But I have a situation here in Sunnydale that kind of majorly outweighs whatever trauma has you in knots. And no offense, but I’m the queen bee in this town, so if you’re gonna keep messing around with  _ my _ vampires…”

“Drusilla’s not…”

“She’s in  _ my _ town,” Cordelia snapped, wholly unwilling to be interrupted. “That makes her mine to deal with. Look. I don’t care what happened in whatever hellhole you’re from. In this town, I’m the Slayer. So if you wanna move freely in  _ my _ town, you’re gonna meet with my gang and my Watcher and we’re gonna work together, or you’re gonna wrap up your tame vampire and get the hell out, and leave me to deal with this mess on my own;  _ comprende?” _

The resulting silence was broken by a heavy exhale, sounding from within the depths of the car. “Buffy.”

It was one word, but it was enough. The other Slayer stilled. “You’re serious. You think we…”

“Might help us to get the lay of the land, yeah?”

After a sec, the girl turned back to meet Cordy’s eyes. She didn’t necessarily look convinced, but she did look prepared to consider the option. “Fine. You want a ride to wherever?”

Cordelia frowned at the car, with its seriously dangerous-looking blacked-out windows. “In that death-trap?”

“We made it all the way up from LA without any problems.” The chick sounded amused by now; like she thought Cordy was lacking nerve. And yeah, okay, Cordy really was kind of wiped by now. And it wasn’t like she couldn’t handle herself if these two got weird and tried to take her out, or kidnap her while she was in there. 

“Fine,” she muttered, reaching for the back door. “But don’t try anything crazy.”

Buffy rolled her eyes and stalked around to the passenger side of the car. “Get in over there so you don’t fry Spike.”

The drive to the school, with Cordy directing them through Sunnydale’s streets, took only about five minutes, and, if harrowing in the mostly-darkened vehicle, was definitely easier than another long walk on top of the longest thirty-six hours of Cordy’s life thus far. When they reached the school, she closed her eyes briefly in exhaustion and contemplated exactly how many classes she was missing right now. She’d have to figure out a nice, complex route in order to dodge Snyder on the way into the library. He knew, after all, that that was her hangout—which, how was this her life, now?—since she so did not need him reading her the riot act for sneaking non-students—and random old-guys—onto campus. Not to mention she definitely did not have the mental energy right now to get sidelined into Trig or whatever. Chemistry? What time was it? “This way,” she informed them, tugging the aging car door open, and set off across the back of the buildings, heading for the stacks.

***

The other Slayer led them into some unlocked service door at the back of her high school, then through a weird little dusty back corridor. In a moment they were sidling between a bunch of too-close bookshelves that looked like they’d had no one looking at them in forever. Buffy caught a brief glimpse of one spine in passing, and, okay?  _ Nostrans Compendium of Elementary Witchcraft _ ? What the heck was something like that doing in a high school?

Beside her, Spike tugged a book off of one of the stacks, grunting in surprise, and cracked it to finger a few pages. He murmured something in what sounded like another language, startlement foremost in his tones. 

“Huh?”

Shaking his head, he replaced the book; willy-nilly wherever was closest to hand, and like a rebellious child, crossways on top of a bunch of others. “Nothin’, luv. Just… You don’t see Ancient Greek texts all that often in American high schools.”

Buffy contemplated that response with not a little awe. “Ancient… Greek?”

“Yeah.”

“Wh…”

Cordy hadn’t even stuttered in her swift progress as she wended her way through the maze. “Giles keeps all his Watcher-y references hidden in between the high school stuff. Most kids in this school barely use the library anyway, so they never notice.” She shot a brief, warning look back in their direction. “He’s gonna be pissed that you put that book in the wrong place. He’s completely obsessed with the librarian thing.”

Spike snorted derisively. “Call it job security.”

/You’re such a rebel/ Buffy thought fondly as they exited the last bookshelf and followed Cordy down a set of steps. Below them was a wide room with a checkout desk, what looked like a little office behind it, a weird sort of cage on the other side, and a longish study-desk in the center, between the stair they were on and another on the other side that bracketed the room. The table was piled high with books. 

“Giles,” Cordy called as she landed on the main floor. “Incoming.”

A tallish guy of about… what? Forty-something exited the office-space to appear behind the desk-deal, wearing a tweedy-looking suit and glasses. He had his head down, his face buried in a huge tome. “I believe I’ve found something of possible use with regard to this ‘judge’,” the man began, sounding very, very English—not in a Spike way but a Merrick way. It made Buffy’s stomach clench, hearing it. “Not sure how much it might help us, but if we…”

“Giles,” Cordy interrupted him.  _ “Incoming.” _

The Watcher blinked up from his book to take them in. “Oh. Sorry…” His mouth opened very slowly as he eyed the newcomers pulling up the rear behind his Slayer. “Ah, who are your… ah, friends, Cordelia?”

Cordy shrugged and moved to take a seat at the overburdened table. She looked abruptly freaking exhausted. “Oh, you know. Just the other Slayer…”

The man Buffy assumed was her Watcher came to a halt, gaping. “I beg your…

Buffy alit behind the other Slayer, tossed a glance at Spike behind her. “Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated?”

“Oh, Christ, Slayer,” Spike put in, sounding caught between admiration, amusement, and maybe wincing a little. 

The Watcher stared at her in shock.

“Oh,” Cordelia went on, waving her hand wearily. “And the vampire she’s with is William the Bloody. Though I hear he prefers ‘Spike’.”

The Watcher scrambled backward, dropping his book to the counter in front of him. His hand flung backward, scrabbling in a pile of papers, and came up with a large, wooden cross.

Spike snorted in disdain. So did Buffy, who rolled her eyes. “You know, those really don’t do much,” she informed the old guy blandly. “I mean, they do for fledges, I guess, right?” she allowed with a glance up at Spike, who shrugged. “But older vampires, not so much. You know, once they’re used to shrugging off pain…”

Spike made a faintly amused sound. “Hell. Some of us like pain, yeah?”

The Watcher froze, looking like a hunted deer caught in headlights. “Wh…”

“Chill, Giles,” Cordy ordered, then leaned her head against the back of the tall, ladder-backed chair. “They’re here hunting Drusilla. Which got a little complicated when some dude in a fedora showed up and got himself offed…”

In that instant, the big double-doors at the far end of the room swung open, and two kids marched in, around Buffy’s own age: a shy-looking red-headed girl, and a tall, dark-haired boy with kind of a shag-cut, who were muttering anxiously between themselves. They were followed by a tallish, willowy, dark-haired woman, whose eyes swiftly took in the tableau, then darted immediately over to where this Giles guy stood poleaxed behind his desk. “Rupert, are you alright?”

Catching the tense mood, the two teens fell silent to stare around the room. The red-headed girl looked at Buffy, then at Spike, then turned to Cordelia. “What’s going on?”

“Yeah,” the boy behind her demanded. “What’s with the party, and why weren’t we invited?”

Buffy frowned. These people seemed to know something about Cordelia and her Watcher, which wasn’t how Merrick acted like it was supposed to be. Wasn’t the Slayer supposed to be kind of on her own?

Cordy, though, took it all in stride. “Everyone, meet Buffy, the other Slayer we’ve all heard so much about, and Spike, the other member of Angelus’s nest…”

“Oh, wow,” the boy interrupted, staring first at Spike and then, longer, at Buffy. 

“Wait,” the girl exclaimed, sounding shocked. “How… I mean…”

“Beats me,” Cordelia answered, shrugging, and waved a hand toward her Watcher. “Apparently she died for like five minutes back in the day? I dunno. Ask Giles. I think I’m gonna take a nap. It’s been a hell of a day.” And she closed her eyes, as if firmly convinced that she’d handed off her baton for the moment.

Buffy lifted her brow and turned her gaze on said Watcher, who was only now sidling around his counter to approach them across the open floor. “William the Bloody,” he breathed, sounding awed, “working willingly with… a Slayer?”

“Yeah, well,” Spike muttered, and tugged a cigarette out of his duster. His eyes were hard as he lit up right in the tweedy guy’s face. “Your boys decided she was a spare, bastards that they are, and left the poor chit to fend for herself in the soddin’ asylum. I took exception to that.”

The Watcher froze, going stock-still in the center of his library. “I beg your pardon!”

“Yeah. Real gits. Wager they just didn’t know what the bloody hell to do with her, once the Line had moved on, innit? Anyroad, I wanted my fight, so I went and got her out, got her back on her feet. Then this business started with Dru, so here we are.”

/Okay, talk about the short version./ Buffy waited, mouth pressed tightly shut, to hear what this other Watcher might have to say about his compatriots’ behavior.

What he said was… exactly nothing. Instead, his eyes fell to her neck, which… what? “And, you…” he snapped, sounding accusing. His eyes darted up to Spike’s, furious and hot, his voice like a slap. 

Spike lowered his cigarette to scoff. “Bloody hell no. You ought to know my reputation, if you’re worth your salt, you git. I said I wanted a fair fight, not a blood-whore.” 

/Oh. Oh, jeez…/ This Watcher-guy thought Spike was biting her? And that she was, what? Letting him, out of some kind of lame gratitude for her rescue, or…

Spike dropped the partly-smoked cigarette, ground it out beneath his boot. “That was Dru. One of the many reasons we’ve come. And one of the many reasons you lot need to stay out of our way.” His mouth tightened. “This is family business.”

His bleak tone, when he said it, made a shiver run up and down Buffy’s spine. 

“Yeah, well,” Cordelia’s voice broke in from the far side of the room, “you may have ‘family business’ with them, but I have personal business to deal with first, so thanks but no thanks. I get dibs.”

Buffy shook her head and turned to the exhausted-looking girl at the table. “Look. Dru bit  _ me _ . I don’t know what went down between you and Angelus, but I…”

“Look, hold up,” the boy interrupted, before anything could get any crazier. “The thing is, we came in here because there’s something you guys should know.” And he swung on a now very awake-looking Cordelia. “Uh, I don’t know how to tell you this, but…”

The red-haired girl touched his arm. “Let me.” And she lowered her voice, eyes regretful as she faced the other Slayer. “Look. Um, Cordelia, we were in the lounge. You know, in between classes, and this thing came on the TV…”

“Yeah, and when I heard…” the tall woman put in, sounding unnerved and regretful. Her eyes flicked from Cordelia to the Watcher and back, flighty and uncertain.

Cordy sighed and sat up straight. “Fine. Hit me with it.”

The boy shrugged. “Okay, here goes. We think after you, um… left, Angelus did… a bad thing. There was a news report…”

The news report was very bad indeed. And, according to Spike, it was the sort of thing his grandsire did when he wanted to leave someone a message.

In this case, the message, according to Cordelia, meant, ‘Join me, or more girls will end up this way.’ “He’s telling me,” Cordelia told them all, sounding stricken, “that every time he does this, it’s my fault. Until I give him what he wants.”

Buffy couldn’t even. “What the heck does he want?” she demanded, incredulous.

The other Slayer’s eyes were haunted as she stared into the distance. “He wants me.”

* * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Buhbye, Whistler. Don't let the door hit you on the way out.  
(dude annoys me. So glad they got Doyle instead in AtS.)  



	15. Remorseless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ended up having to split another one, argh, but let me just say, y'all; thanks to wolf_shadoe's amazing advice, though working from my phone drove me straight bonkers (my brain HATES it), using a bluetooth keyboard actually vaguely worked for me till I could get a new computer to replace my dying one, so I am not as behind as I could have been for y'all. Still, I apologize in advance for any future stutters in production as I try to catch up.
> 
> Oh. Borrowed some stuff from "Innocence" in here.

**Sec.15C: Remorseless**

Spike had, of course, been super upset with her over the whole ‘sneaking out to go rumble with the other Slayer and hunt down Dru’ thing, but Buffy had his number. In the end, what it had come down to was, he either trusted her to be a big girl, or he didn’t. “Look,” she’d snapped finally, and pulled him aside in the weird school library. “Here’s the thing, Spike. I get it. I do. I know you care about me…” 

/ _‘My Spike will be very cross with you. He’s always so very cross when he’s afraid the ones he loves will be hurt.’_ / 

/Shake it off, Buffy./ “But that wasn’t how it went down. I wasn’t breaking my promise and heading out to get into trouble… I even left you a note…” 

His incredulous snort wasn’t promising. /So, guess you didn’t see the note./ “But it looks like that’s just how things fall out for me; because I’m the Slayer…”

He’d grumbled something about accident-prone ‘bints’, and crossed his arms. 

/Alright, fair, since I’ve been bitten by your ex _and_ ended up in an asylum, but still./ “Yeah, okay, but that just kind of goes to show us, right? Because I’m the _Slayer_ .” She would drive this point home if nothing else landed, and use it to whack that exasperated irritation off of his damn pretty face. “I have to go _deal_ with stuff. And you can’t protect me to death. I can’t stay cooped up forever!” Frustration filled her, exploding out all over. “I couldn’t _stay_ in there! I needed to go have a run!” She’d pled with him with her eyes, seeking his understanding. “I was freaking out in there, okay? I felt so _trapped_ …”

At that, Spike had melted, like she’d wrecked his soul or something. “Oh, hell, Slayer, I’m sorry. I didn’t think… Yeah, you would feel like that, wouldn’t you. Christ.” He’d rubbed a hand over his face, closed his eyes briefly. “Let’s just put it behind us, yeah?”

And they had. They’d moved on to deal with present problems; like this business with the other Slayer, and Drusilla killing that… whatever-he-was, and whatever she’d been talking about with visions, and what to do about Angelus putting up what Spike called his ‘art installations’ to get Cordelia’s attention. “The chit’s right. He’ll go on doing it till he gets what he wants from her. For some bloody reason the bird’s completely got under his skin. It’s as if…” He’d frowned, shaking his head; almost like he was denying something to himself.

“What, Spike?”

He’d shaken his head, glancing briefly over her crown toward where the other girl was standing, arms crossed and looking about half-asleep on her feet, in the circle of her compatriots, as they comforted her and plotted their next move. “Dunno. It’s only… Darla’s dead, yeah? Prat dusted her himself. He’ll feel bloody well guilty over that; and real soddin’ lost, in the part of him’s missing having a sire about. And with all this lot hangin’ about—minions of Nest, Nest himself puttin’ out lures…”

Something he’d said had apparently caught the other Slayer’s attention. “What about Nest and Darla?” the tall girl had demanded, sharp and fierce.

Spike’s eyes had risen over Buffy, arrowed in to focus on Cordelia’s. “When a vamp dusts his own sire, it leaves a bloody great empty hole in him, is the thing. And right now, the pull to obey a grandsire…” He’d winced a little, like he knew wherefrom he spoke. “Thing is, he’ll want to replace Darla. And it sounds like, from the way you talk about him, and the way he talked about you, he wants to put you in that place. Which sounds unnatural as all bloody hell to me… but then, if you’re right and the ponce had a soul shoved into him before now, maybe he got used to doin’ as he was told, like a good little boy, for a bit there, and it came about he ended up puttin’ you into the place of a sire, in the demon-bits of his mind. Because that part of him…” His gaze hardened on hers, went pointed. “We all need someone to give us that security. Someone to tell us how to go about things. In the absence of a sire…” 

And then, weirdly, Spike’s expression had gone through an odd little revolution, and he’d blinked over to Buffy… and froze. And his face went tight, his voice agonized. “In the absence of a sire,” he repeated softly, “you either have to learn to manage yourself… or you end up seeking out someone strong enough to manage you, in the end, so you don’t end up going off half-cocked from the lack of it. And then, once you’ve found someone who’ll give you that, you’ll end up doing just about bloody anything to keep it. Behave however’s expected of you, so long as it gives you what you need.” And he straightened, arms still crossed over his chest; but now it looked like a self-protective gesture.

/Okay, what’s his deal?/

“So, wait. What you’re saying is, Angelus wants Cordy with him so she can, what? Boss him around?” The one nerdy guy, Xander’s voice was loaded down with disgust. “That’s just…”

“Well, I mean, she kinda already did, let’s be real…” the red-headed girl, Willow, had interrupted, sounding amused.

“Oh,” the one teacher, Ms. Calendar had exclaimed, sounding startled, but like she’d solved some sort of mystery. “The souled part of him was in love with you, the girl. The demon was in love with the Slayer, who could dominate him the way a sire would, since he lost that connection to Darla. That makes sense. It absolutely explains how he might have reached true happiness, if he thought…”

The other Slayer had flung up her hand, looking mildly disgusted. “Well, doesn’t that just figure. As if I need him acting like my puppy, on top of everything…” And she’d sighed heavily. “And, my bad dog, right now, I guess.” Rolling her eyes, she’d turned to face Spike down. “Fine. If that’s what did it, it makes sense, but that doesn’t mean he’s gonna get what he wants from me now he’s all Mr. Bad Boy. You. Spike…”

Buffy had bridled almost instantly at the way the chick had made to boss around her vampire. Like, okay; you have your own vampires to deal with in this town. Boss _them_ around. This one’s _mine_. But then, as the chick kept throwing orders around, Spike’s eyes had drifted briefly to hers over his crossed arms, looking amused. Something about his expression had soothed her, reminded her that nothing would threaten their two-person unit, and she had been able to relax and let it flow over her head like a light breeze.

“…If you know him this way,” Cordelia continued bluntly, “tell me what’s the best way to go after him and his ho-bag girlfriend…”

Anyway, aside from having to continually remind the offended girl that vampire family relations did not, in fact, make Dru a ho, they worked together fairly well as they hashed out several workable (if somewhat flawed plans) to try to take Angelus down and get Dru the heck out of Sunnydale. They were all pretty rickety, and they almost all revolved around some kind of ‘Cordelia goes over there and pretends to fall for Angelus and his big weirdo proposition’ thing (which was dangerous and highly unlikely to convince the guy, who would for obvious reasons be looking for a trap)… but it was what they had right now.

Also, there was the whole ‘Judge’ thing, which per this Giles guy was major bad news. How Drusilla had heard about him was a massive unknown, but whatever. Probably she’d ‘Seen’ him coming, or something. Anyway, they seriously needed to keep the two baddie vamps from getting ahold of this thing and putting it together like Humpty Dumpty, since it was apparently some kind of apocalyptic, world-destroying, medieval people-eater or whatevs. 

The good thing was, since it had apparently been dismembered or whatever back in the day, they could just keep an eye out on the ports and stuff, and for weird artifacts coming in from all over the world, and go from there. And, Buffy was going to have to hang out in Sunnydale for longer than a couple of days. 

Mom was so _not_ going to be happy. 

Back at the motel, Buffy exhaled in unwilling exasperation as she picked up the phone again. “I don’t know what I’m going to say to keep her from barreling up here to try to drag me back down to the Valley by my hair,” she confided to her anxious vampire (who was, at the moment, pacing around by the window smoking up a storm, since the late afternoon light was still shining too much on the walkway for him to do it outside). Something about it made her snap at him. Competing stress-relief tactics, probably. “Look, can you keep the smoke out the window till you’re chill? I’m stressed enough.”

With a vicious glare, he cranked the window open wider, made a face at her that could qualify as mean-mugging, and shoved his arm out through the open space—this place wasn’t cool enough to spring for screens—and waved it around about an inch from impending sunlight. “Happy, Slayer? Christ.”

“Yes. Look. I’m not any happier about it than you are, alright? It’s not like I wanted this to go down this way…”

“Fuck.” Spinning away from her, he aimed his glare out through the panes, into the threatening SoCal afternoon. 

Shaking her head and holding her breath to stave off the trembling in her hand, Buffy dialed her mother’s new number. “Hey, Mom.”

Mom’s response was immediate as a tiger’s pounce. ‘For God’s sake, Buffy, are you coming home? Tell me you’re coming home this instant…’

/Okay, nice opener? I’m glad you’re concerned?/ “Um, okay, so here’s the thing. We tried to go after Dru last night…”

From over by the window, a caustic snort that indicated without words that the ‘we’ in that sentence was very loose verbiage. Buffy ignored him. “…But she got away…”

‘Buffy, honestly, I can’t handle this. You’re my daughter and you’re sixteen, and for all I know you’re living out of a car…’

Buffy blinked at that last. “What? We’re at a motel. What even. This is Sunnydale, not outer Mongolia.”

There was a short silence from the other end of the line, then, ‘A motel.’

Buffy was at a loss as to the reason for the sudden change in conversational tone. “Yeah, why? You know, it was that or, like you said, crash in the car, which A, would be chilly and uncomfortable—and trashy—and B, no showers, which is so not much with the good grooming practices. Also, deeply un-fun…”

Mom’s voice hardened and got all snappy. ‘Buffy, I want you home _now_ . You are my _sixteen_ \- _year_ \- _old_ daughter. No way you should be off gallivanting around in some distant town with some older man, doing dangerous…’

Buffy rolled her eyes at this interpretation. “Oh, jeez. For one thing, I’m nearly seventeen. For another, it’s not like I’m missing school; and let’s be real. By now if I _was_ in school, I’d be going to cheerleading meets or volleyball tourneys that could take a couple of days, depending on if we went to state—which, with me on the team, they damn well better—which means I’d be at motels with coaches, who are a lotta the time older men, right? Which, just to put that out there, I’m a _Slayer_ , Mom. If anyone ever tried anything with me I could completely knock ‘em out. I’m not in any danger—as if I ever would be with Spike, of all people. He’s the most complete freaking gentleman on the face of the planet. You have no freaking idea. He thinks of me as, like, some kind of half-drowned rescue kitten or something…”

Another faint noise from the window, this time sardonically amused.

“I’m just saying. The only reason you’re worried or upset or anything is because you just got me back, and because the last time you left me alone for a few days, I ended up… where I ended up. Which I understand, Mom. I _really_ do…” Buffy really was trying to be sympathetic, but to be fair, her mother badly needed to _get_ it. Her daughter was the Slayer. There were just some things Buffy needed to do; some things about her life that were never going to be normal again. The faster Mom accepted that, the easier her own life would become, emotionally-speaking.

There was another long silence from the other end of the line, and then, damningly, ‘Let me talk to Spike.’ 

Her tones had gone way frosty. This was ‘not to be gainsaid Mom’. /Shit./ “O…okay, then.” Buffy turned her gaze to her vampire, who had frozen rather picturesquely by his window. “She, uh, wants to talk to you.”

He nodded, moving very, very slowly now, and a little jerkily; like a badly-strung marionette. He put out his cigarette on the windowsill like an untamed, teenage jerk, straightened, turned to her… and held out his hand, his expression oddly fixed.

He spent his first few minutes of the very one-sided conversation just holding the phone to his ear while Mom said her piece. His tight expression never altered, while Mom could be heard to rattle firmly on; a string of passionate syllables without inflection. Buffy couldn’t catch the words, but she didn’t need to. The tone and Spike’s face said it all, and god, how would he respond to accusations like that, when he… /Mom, he doesn’t even think of me like that, okay? This isn’t…/

Other words slammed into her, from another moment, hitting her hard between the eyes.

_“How long did you play it straight, here?”_

_“How long you gonna do the same, before you can get into this one’s pants?”_

Ludicrous. /There is _no_ way. Angelus might be doing that, because he’s a jerk, but Spike’s not like that. He wouldn’t… do all _this—_ save me, take care of me, wean me off the drugs, be my friend—just to bang some kid! Heck, he has to know by now I’m crushing on him. If he wanted to… seduce me…/ Her everything blushed at even mentally using the word, but real was real. /…He probably could’ve a while ago, but he’s never even _talked_ to me that way. Heck; he’s barely touched me, except when we’re fighting, which…/

_“I’m not you, you git. I don’t break my toys. I’m in it for a good fight, not a soddin’ art installation.”_

Except… She knew for a fact that wasn’t entirely true anymore. That part had become weirdly inconsistent information… because yes. Spike had long since admitted that fighting her had indeed been his original motivation for helping her out. He’d been nothing but straight with her about his original motivations… she’d thought, anyway. So, okay; it was true as far as it went. But he had also attested, face-to-face and heart-to-heart with her in that serious way of his that while yeah, he’d been in it for the fight at first, that wasn’t his big motivation anymore. Which was why he’d set her free, let her go home. /Which kind of kills the whole idea of him trying to get me into bed, too, since he practically threw me at Mom and ran the other way. And it wasn’t like he lured me back or anything. I came back to him all on my own…/

But now, all the sudden, things seemed fishy; because there were omissions he’d admitted to, but wouldn’t explain, and…

And Dru had just insisted that he loved her. Which, while her heart soared painfully to hear it, sounded just as ludicrous as Angelus’ theory. But on the other hand, no one could say that Drusilla, of all people, didn’t know Spike. Not after they’d lived and loved together for over a hundred years, so what if that was why… /Did you send me away because you wanted to, like… do right by me, or something dumb like that?/ 

No, that was just nuts. Spike was a freaking vampire. If he wanted something, he took it. He didn’t ‘do right’ by people. 

/Except… he’s always done his best to do right by you./

Her head whirled. She couldn’t think, couldn’t hold onto too many disparate threads of motivation. 

It did beg the question, however. Which thing was true? Which thing aligned most closely with her vampire’s actions?

_“My Spike’s lost in the Sunshine. He’s Hades now; ready to give all his riches to have but a third of the year with the springtime.”_

Buffy seriously had to ask Spike sometime what the deal was with all this Hades and Persephone stuff. Or maybe find a book about it in that one school library that had books about literally everything, most of it weird. /Or I could ask the Watcher-guy there. Make the jerk make himself useful./ Because right now, her head was spinning and she couldn’t make heads or tails of any of this… but she at least realized now that all these conflicting interpretations of her vampire’s behavior were probably behind all her snapping at him and basically being a bitch. Which he way didn’t deserve, for the record.

/You know what? I just can’t deal with this right now. None of it. I’ll just deal with the thing in front of us. And that’s helping this other Slayer peel Dru off of this Angelus jerk. Then, hopefully we can wrap grandpa up for this Cordelia girl, get Dru out of here—which means getting Spike out of here, which would make Mom way happy!—and we can bail out of this nutso town and head back to LA. And then, I guess, I can move on with life. Go to school and, whatever. Be Buffy-the-normal-girl again./ The prospect sounded dull and highly unlikely, but that was what she faced. Challenges like recovering high school credits, and facing down the social stigma of being a year behind her peers and still somehow recovering from that impossible gulf via the ladder of perfect extracurriculars and not-too-perfect grades, and decent—but not _too_ decent—relations with teachers, and… 

And it all seemed both insurmountable, and at the same time uninteresting and not for her… and weirdly exhausting in a way that had nothing to do with real weariness, and everything to do with performing in an area that was not one’s true niche. /But it needs to be done. I need to catch up. I need…/

Anyway, this town was insane, and way more than she’d bargained for when she’d said she’d come along to find their wayward vampire, and who could deal with all this madness and still think about stuff like a personal life, on top of everything else? How was this Cordelia girl dealing with everything? How…

“You know I understand very well, Joyce. I’m not a bleedin' idiot.” Spike’s taut voice, a thin thread of frustrated ire held tightly in check beneath the semi-polite surface, dragged her attention back to the pinpoint present, and out of the whirling kaleidoscope of the future.

/Oh, man./

“Yes. I know that all too well, and I’m bloody well offended that you feel you need to tell it to me.”

Oh, god; his voice was so pained; so hurt, and so _incredibly_ angry underneath.

And then his entire body went rigid, his tones so frigid that Buffy almost quailed. “You know I do,” he answered some inaudible query; and there was something almost agonized in him as he said it that felt like a shot through the heart. “I shouldn’t even have to say it. You know your daughter. Christ; I doubt anyone who’s met her wouldn’t!”

/Ohmygod, what’s he _admitting_ to?/

“Yes, well, given what you and I both know, and what you’ve just forced me to admit to, I hardly think I should need to say it, but you absolutely have my word on that.”

God, what the hell was her mother accusing him of?

“No, I’m absolutely well aware, dammit!” 

Another stream of incomprehensibly sharp syllables from her mother. If possible, Spike tightened up even further, now resembling a coiled spring. He straightened, his expression almost a rictus, his cheekbones standing out sharp so that he looked almost scary. The heightened tension in his face made the healing scars on the one side, from Dru’s claws, stand out in wide, naked weals, like exclamations of stress. “I won’t repeat it, Joyce. My word is good. It’s been good since long before you were bloody born, and it’ll be good long after you’re put in the ground. Your daughter’s damn well safe. I’ll see her back to you as soon as I’m able. Goodbye.” The last word, bitten off harshly, sounded frighteningly close to ‘fuck off!’ as, without another word, he slammed the receiver back down on the cradle, turned on his heel, and marched right to the motel room door.

Buffy, still wincing at the sharp report of plastic on plastic, jumped to her feet, hands flung out toward his tense back. “Don’t… It’s still sunny out there!”

He stilled just enough to answer her, though he didn’t look over his shoulder. “I’ll stay in the soddin’ shade, Slayer,” he answered, sharp and cutting, and exited to lean against the outside wall. He huddled there, in the little sliver of sun-protection offered by the overhang… and remained on the walkway for over three hours, smoking up a storm. 

Definitely not the best time to ask him about Hades and whatever. 

Things were way too prickly, just now.

***

/Where the bloody fuck does she get off, accusin’ me of…/ 

Except, he understood. On one level, anyway. Poor woman was facing the prospect of her only chick and child haring off to god alone knew where, to huddle up in some sodding motel with a man who, even when he was alive, would have been damn near twice her bloody age. And that before what a century-plus had done to him. /And me a soddin’ vamp, to boot./ 

And yet, to be accused of carrying her daughter off for the express purposes of having his way with her somewhere far off from parental supervision was bloody well nettling, considering how goddamned principled he’d been about the whole fucking thing. He’d been the polar bloody opposite of everything a fucking vampire was meant to be in such a situation. There had been quite literally nothing in this of want-take-have… because in this, he had acted nothing like the demon he was. He’d subsumed every natural instinct, instead thinking of nothing but of what would be best for Buffy. 

Her needs came first. Always would. As such, what ol’ Spike needed? All that could go fucking hang. He’d been shagged plenty in his life; and hell. Considering that at the moment the chit had the life experience of sodding pocket lint, he’d do well to let her season a few years anyroad, or he’d end up with naught for the experience, should it ever occur, but a great, terrible bloody letdown. /Christ, by the time this comes to anything, if it ever fucking does, I’ll have built it up so sodding much in my mind that it could never compare, no matter if it’s good or not; bloody hell, what am I _doing?_ /

In the mean fucking time, he’d been a bleeding saint, and to have her mother treat him as if he’d goddamn ploughed her unsuspecting child into the sodding mattress of this seedy, piece of shite establishment the second they’d arrived was the utter fucking limit. It had been only the built-in respect Spike had for all mothers, the remains in him of a son named William, that had kept him from telling her to sod the fuck off back to her own mother’s bleedin’ womb, the unimaginably insulting bint. 

Which was a laugh, wasn’t it, that he was feeling so unfairly maligned for the insinuation, and him a demon? One of the worst that ever there was, a son of Aurelius, and the great Angelus’ get to boot? Bloody ridiculous it was. Except… /Do you know what I’m giving up, by loving your daughter, you frightful bitch? No one’s ever gonna fear me again! Bloody hell, my reputation’s as good as trod into the fucking cinders! Next time I step into a demon bar, I’ll be lucky if every git in there doesn’t bloody well laugh me out of the place! Christ! ‘There goes Spike, slayer of Slayers. ‘Cept now he’s made himself a Slayer’s bleedin’ babysitter, innit? Or one’s slave, more like…’/ 

/Bloody fuck, what am I _doing?_ /

The worst part was, he knew he’d never leave. He’d be there for Buffy till she was grown and ready to look on him with new eyes, or till the day she died. Either that, or he was dust himself, wasn’t it? Ready to serve, because he was bleeding well hers, and that was all of it. Damn him all to hell. Damn his reputation, damn all of it. None of the rest of that shite mattered, did it? 

/Well, s’pose I’ve lived long enough as a big bad, by now. Did it to protect Dru and live up to what she wanted of me, anyway. Now that part of my life’s over. S’pose I’ll have to see what it takes to be what a Slayer needs of me./

It was a strange thought; and stranger still that more of him didn’t recoil in disgust at the very concept. All he really did think of it, though, was that so long as she didn’t want him to go back to being the sodding wet pansy fool he was in life, he’d no doubt do just about anything in the end. /Fuck, I’m owned, aren’t I? Right out./

And he was like to prove it, in this sodding town. Going up against sodding Angelus, while his sire was on a tear. Then, knowing Slayers, and the way Buffy seemed to be vibing along all friendly as you please with the other chit, he’d be hard-pressed to get her away from here before she’d helped this lot of children to deal with this Judge business. 

/Hell; she might insist we stay to help the other mad chit in going against fucking Nest./ Which, if so, she’d want his aid with that, as well, no doubt. /Fuck me all to hell, sideways./ Talk of being a blood-traitor. There was going up against one’s own nest… and then there was attacking the progenitor of one’s entire Lineage. Even Angelus had avoided doing that, whilst fighting at this Cordelia’s side for over a sodding year. Which… 

And if that wasn't another fucking bizarre pill to swallow, wasn’t? Though, it explained not a few things. /Christ; who knew the git had been ensouled all this time? Good to have an explanation as to why Darla wanted us to slaughter that lot, though. And why he left us. Why all of it./ 

Hell. It certainly explained the business on the sodding submarine, which was nice, since that bleedin’ debacle had been gnawing at Spike for a good fifty-odd years. Helpful to have an explanation for one’s sire’s utterly inexplicable behavior for the last century or so. 

Didn’t explain why that Lawson berk had risen to his second life after only a few bloody hours, but maybe it had something to do with his sire being ensouled when he’d done it? /Thoughts to ponder when I’m not busy stewing in my own juices like a ponce, trying to broil myself in the afternoon sun like a great, dramatic prat…/

Glancing back over his shoulder into the window, Spike watched the girl. She had given over watching him to play cards for a bit, but she’d recently vanished. She’d only just reappeared, though, and… /Oh, fuck./ She’d had a wash, then; probably for lack of anything better to do, and now she was prancing round in the room all fresh, her hair damp, but recovering its bounce, her flesh rosy. And probably the room was awash with the scents of her moist and… /Fuck me blind and backward, oh Christ…/ 

He couldn’t go back in there again for the next hour—at the least—without needing a sodding wank; how the fuck was he going to manage this for however the hell long they were going to be staying in this bleeding shitehole?

He would have to keep his private recreation secluded in the loo, for one, and mostly bound up in the time she was deeply asleep. He’d need to do so, of course, to get by, since Christ knew dealing with her scent, her presence all hot from battles and the rest for however sodding long was like to drive him round the twist already, much less cumulatively over the course of days. If he was going to manage this, he’d need regular relief; what with all this fucking stress and rigmarole. On top of which he hadn’t gotten his cock wet, by this point, in months, between Dru’s illness and now… and this was absolute madness, wasn’t it? All of it. /You’re a sodding time bomb, you nit, what are you _doing?_ /

But he’d made a promise. Not that he’d have touched her anyway, knowing how it would damage her. She’d been damaged enough. But now, on top of that, he’d said it aloud, given his word. And he meant to bloody well keep it, and deliver her back to her mother untouched if it killed him. 

Which, to be frank, it very well might. 

Had anyone ever dusted from sexual frustration, before? /Christ, if I’m the first, that’d be one for the books. And, hell, if I was ever to be famous for something, I never thought _that_ would be it! Bloody, _bloody_ women. You love them and you hate them, sometimes, fuck./ But between her mother, and the promises he’d long since made in his own head, to Buffy herself, and now sodding Angelus and what he’d said in front of the chit, like a great brainless git… /No way I could ever make any kind of advance, even a gentle one, letting her know how I feel. Not for a long bloody time, now, anyroad. She’d only believe what that bastard said. At least, right now, fuck./ Between that and his literal oath…

Hell. She was too young, anyroad. And that was what held him back far more fully than anything anyone else might have said, any other promise made. A promise he had given himself; not to cheapen this. Right now, and for the foreseeable future, Buffy and his relationship with her, delicate though it was, was the most important thing in the universe to him. He must needs nurture it, in favor of a possible future that, though he could only doubt it might exist…

/Dru Sees it. Dru says it can be, and that’s…/ 

He had to believe in that vision of hers, hang onto it, or he’d burst. Nothing else for it, anyway, since for now, at least, there was no other option. He’d not cheapen the possibilities to come in favor of a fast, worthless shag now, when for all he knew the chit only valued him because she depended on him, or because he’d helped her, and nothing more; or perhaps as a stalwart comrade-in-arms. /We’ve friendship, now. Best to build on that, not destroy it. You can do this, m’lad. You can stay your impulses for something worth more. Worth everything./ 

He had spent several lifetimes loving someone who could not properly love him back. This time, if he was to love, he would be loved in turn, and truly, or he would not settle for any other sort of love at all. /So, you manage yourself in the interim, m’bucko, and you do this clean. Sod your demon, sod your prick, sod all of it. If you can’t, you go out and find yourself some sort of willing demon or other and get yourself shagged, before you fucking well explode; but anyroad, don’t ruin it by jumping the bloody gun. After all, it isn’t as if you’d be playing anyone false right now, yeah? Stop being a great bleeding ponce, grow a pair, and get out there! You’ve all the bloody time in the world to get a bit more experience, innit? Might even help you please the girl better in the long run./

His head fell back against the thin, stucco-walled motel with a low _thunk_ , desolation swamping him. He only wished he found the prospect more exciting than sordid. Damn him for being, man and demon, too loyal a sort.

***

Buffy met with the other Slayer’s pals, back in the library thing again, the next day… and apparently they were having some kind of career day or something at the high school? At any rate, that was all the whole bunch could talk about—which careers they were supposedly suited for, which ones they thought they should get, why the career fair was bunk, why the aptitude tests were garbage. It all only served to make Buffy realize just how insanely much school-stuff she’d missed in the last year or whatever. Like… people her age were getting tested for career aptitudes. _Career aptitudes_. And here she was, kicking it in a motel with a vampire somewhere between twenty-five and a hundred-and-fifty, depending on who you talked to. (And that was just judging him on his face. Though, granted, most of the time he acted somewhere more around twelve.) Playing hooky from her life, making weird excuses to her mother, and wondering if she could remotely convince any principal of any regular school that was not, like, a continuation school or something, to let her make up the rest of her freaking sophomore year. 

/God. I’m supposed to be a junior right now. A _junior!_ /

She was so behind on everything. So out of the loop…

Probably it didn’t matter, since she already technically had a career, but still. It was kind of under-the-table. Not one you could put on paper, much less use it to make a living.

Aside from the whole career thing, the one girl—the nerdy redhead one; Willow—had apparently acquired a boyfriend somewhere in the interim. Or, at least, she was attached at the hip now to a shortish, kind of cool-looking guy who was also, by the way, redheaded, in a spiky, ‘in a band’ kind of way. He also looked somewhat older than the rest of them; kind of in the way Cordelia did, actually, which… “Oh, Oz is technically supposed to be a senior, but even though he’s, like, a total genius…”

“Shop class and PE are my nemeses,” he filled in, sounding completely unbothered by having been held back. An attitude which Buffy, by the way, found inspiring. 

/Don’t let ‘em get you down, Incorporated, huh?/

“He’s in a band,” Willow gushed, clearly overwhelmed at her luck at having landed such high-class boyfriend material. Which, fair. “They’re so awesome.”

“I mean, we play music. I wouldn’t necessarily even classify us as ‘good’. ‘Awesome’s kind of a stretch.” 

Willow hugged his arm to her chest, clearly on cloud nine about the boyfriend-age. 

“And he’s part of the ‘in the know’ bunch because…” Buffy came to the point with an eye to her fellow Slayer. And yeah, by this point, she was maybe judging a little. Like, did the girl put out an ad to everyone in her school or something? ‘I’m a Slayer; ask me how’?

“He saw me dust a vamp last night,” Cordelia answered in a ‘blowing it off’ kind of way, which, also fair, Buffy supposed. Technically, that was how she had acquired Pike. Ish. 

/God, Pike, where are you, what happened to you, are you okay?/

“At least this way, Willow can stop crushing on Giles…”

“What?” Willow demanded of Cordelia, sounding shocked.

“Wait, what?” Xander agreed, staring. 

“Yes, exactly; I beg your pardon?” the Watcher-guy inserted, equally stunned.

“Oh, like you weren’t? Not that I can talk, with the two-hundred-year-old vampire thing, you know? All you, girl.” Cordelia waved a dismissive hand. “Just saying; guy in a band? Probably a better idea.”

Buffy blinked over at the shy girl, whose face now matched her hair, and who was very carefully not looking at her boyfriend. Who was, to be fair, inspecting her with new—and what looked like amused—interest for her blushes.

“I’m just glad you stopped hanging all over Xander, because that’s so not ever going to happen, and it was getting way sad to watch…”

“Also, again, what?” Xander exclaimed, doing the second of several double-takes.

Willow shot her new boyfriend a panicked sort of look. “Seriously. We _totally_ got that out of our systems last summer! It’s not even a thing anymore. All the kissage; out of our systems completely, right Xander?”

Xander, still gaping, swung his head in Willow’s direction, then back to Cordelia, still lost-looking as a shaggy puppy. “I… Yeah! Definitely yeah! We’re _so_ much better as friends! Totally glad Wil’s got a guy! And Oz is cool! What are we even…”

For the record, the new guy, Oz? Just sat there silent, watching the interpersonal currents and looking amused at the byplay.

“Glad to hear it,” Cordelia interjected, sounding, of all things, bored. “That makes all this so much better for me. I don’t have time for everyone’s soap-operas. I have my own to deal with.” The other Slayer’s eyes flashed back to Buffy’s. “You wanna go hunting with me? Angel did another nice art installation last night for my benefit, and I’m over it. I wanna pin his ass to a wall somewhere before he gets away tonight. Then you and your pale-ass boyfriend can drag his skank-ho side-piece back to LA, I can see if Miss Calendar can stuff his soul back into him, and we can get life back to normal on both sides of the tracks here. I mean, no offense, but it’s kinda weird having you here. At least, it is for me. I dunno how it is for you…” 

Buffy was gaping now, for several reasons. /Boyfriend? Wh…/

“I figure, though, we can work together long enough to make this happen, right? Stop them before they get this Judge thing off the ground, break up the party.” Her eyes narrowed hard in Buffy’s direction, pinning her in place. “As long as you keep it straight that this is _my_ town, and you’re just a guest here.”

Buffy flung up a hand, did a few double-takes of her own, and worked hard to swiftly slot a number of rather shocking assertions into her mental catalog. “Alright; A, I don’t want your weird town. I’m an LA girl, so chill. B, what did you call Spike? Because it’s so not like…”

“Yeah, okay, whatever you wanna tell yourself. But, just saying, even I wouldn’t crash in a motel with Angel.” Her lips twitched. “I mean, if I was gonna go there, I’d make him pay for an actual nice hotel room. Girl’s gotta have standards. But, not my gig, not my vampire.” Pushing herself up, Cordelia turned to her Watcher, already moving on. “Okay, Giles. We’re off to hunt us some vampires. See you on the flips…”

“Wait. She’s in a _motel_ with that guy?” Xander demanded, sounding floored.

Watcher-guy was right there with him, for the first time turning to stare at Buffy in what looked like active concern. “Yes, let us just… I do beg your pardon, Cordelia, but this merits further examination.” Shoving his glasses a little further up onto the bridge of his nose, Jeeves or whatever narrowed his eyes at Buffy. “Do you mean to tell me that you are staying in a seedy motel? With William the Bloody, the slayer of Slayers?” 

Did Buffy actually detect concern? Amazement? Disgust even? “Okay, hold on there, Harry Poppins. First of all, my mom’s already worried enough for both of you.” And, out of nowhere, massive, rage-laced vindication climbed up her throat to boil out in this man’s tweedy direction. “Two, you don’t get a say. Not even a little. You people _abandoned_ me to be tortured by psychiatrists, who drugged me and tied me down and insisted that I admit vampires didn’t exist before they would let me go. And since my own Watcher had to _kill_ himself to save me and him from vampires, I couldn’t bring myself to do that; so they kept me there for _months_.”

Her eyes remained on the stunned Watcher; frigid. “And your assholes didn’t do a single thing to get me out of there.” Fury vied with weariness, now; because it was all in the past, but it had left such scars. And she was still so angry, so hurt, that she couldn’t even look at Cordelia, who had been here, and safe, and loved, and _free_ for all this time. Free to go to school, and to slay, and to make friends, and to have a living Watcher, and… “Because they already had a new it-girl; so I could just lump it. So forgive me,” she finished, glaring hard at the now-gaping Watcher, “but I honestly don’t give a crap what you or any of your guys think of me.” Her voice took on a warning note of its own accord; a challenge. “I _definitely_ don’t give a damn what you think of my friendship with Spike, and I will protect him from you till my dying breath. Because _he_ got me _out_.”

The silence in the room was profound. It lasted an inordinately long time. It was broken, eventually, by a faint rustle as Giles slowly removed his glasses, looked down into his hands. “I very deeply regret that the Council’s handling of your situation caused such long-lasting scars…”

He never got to finish. “Giles,” Cordelia broke in, sharp and harsh. “Would those guys actually have done something like that to one of their own Slayers?”

Giles nodded at the ground. “Unfortunately, though I hate to admit it, having seen a new Slayer come into being while another remained extant would very much have thrown them for a loop. They wouldn’t have known what to do with Buffy.” His eyes rose to meet Cordelia’s, regretful and sober. “And since the Line now flows through you, Cordelia, they would no doubt consider her something of a throwaway.”

“Okay, wow,” Cordelia answered after a sec, and turned to Buffy. “Remind me not to trust ‘em ever again, if they can look at us like cheap, replaceable parts like that.” Reaching out in a way that was, for her, almost tentative, she lifted a brow. “Hey. You wanna go slay something?”

Buffy drew in a deep, calming breath, nodded, lifted her eyes to fix them on another Slayer. Someone who might even understand. “I’d love to.”

***

The new girl was pretty good at figuring out what vamps might be up to, actually. She was a smart cookie; Cordy would give her that. “Where’re we going?”

“Well,” Cordy answered as they picked their way through the usual haunts down by the wharves, “I figure we do a quick tour of the usual haunts, see if we can scare up anyone in demonville who knows anything about this Judge business. You know, incoming shipments of demon-parts?”

“Okay, sounds kosh. Then what?”

Cordelia liked the whole ‘not questioning her constantly’ part of this other Slayer. She seemed to get the concept of action first, debate later. Which was nice. Not that Cordy would trade her team or anything, but it was cool to have someone on hand who understood the necessities of the moment. “Then I thought maybe we’d check in on someone.”

The other Slayer nodded. “Who?”

Cordy shrugged slightly, eyes darting everywhere as she sought for any action, though the night was suspiciously low on takers. “I’m mildly concerned that the keyboarding teacher—you met her; Ms. Calendar?—hasn’t shown up all day. She’s been having a tough time lately, so she might’ve just decided to take a mental health day… But also Angel… Sorry. Angelus knows she’s in the group, so I gotta check on her first, even if I’m pissed at her, to make sure she’s good, and then…”

Buffy held up a hand. “A, good idea, since he’s been so into turning girls you know into ‘art’ to catch your attention, but, B… Why are you so mad at her, again?”

Cordy’s lips tightened of their own accord. “She knew something about the curse, somehow. About how it works, what would trigger it to fall apart. She could’ve told me not to sleep with Angel, but she didn’t; or at least she only kinda tried to warn me, when she coulda just up and said it. And here we are.” Spreading her hands wide, stake clutched tightly in the right, she gestured around her to indicate the giant goddamn mess they were in at the current moment. “I guess you could say it was at least half her fault that this whole thing happened.” She shrugged, eyes still on the lookout for action. “She’s had a tough time facing me since we all found out about it, so maybe with everything hitting the fan, she just decided to stay home. But you can never be too careful, considering Angelus, right?" The last came out hard and sharp. For which she thought she could be forgiven, considering the Hannibal Lecter-style setup she’d had to deal with when they’d gone to view Angelus’ first ‘message’ last night. 

/Ugh./

“Okay, but… how did she know?” Buffy asked, reasonably enough. “And, also… Seriously. What’s with the party? Because I know my Watcher, Merrick, was big with the ‘don’t tell people about vampires and your secret identity’ schtick, which…”

“Yeah, well,” Cordy muttered, and lowered her stake-hand and her guard to step smoothly over a roll of barbed wire. There were literally no vamps or extraneous nasties out lately. It was like knowing Angelus was out doing his thing had scared all the usual suspects into hiding. /No customers anymore. I guess time to bail and head uptown./ “That was the plan. But this is a hellmouth. Which means, everyone gets into trouble. And then I bail ‘em out. Which means they’re in the know. And then, all the sudden, they’re being helpful, and far be it from me to say no to a little assistance, if it gets me some sleep at night.” She shrugged. “I’ll keep my Scooby gang, thank you very much. I mean, the more research they do, the more time I have to do actual homework, slay, and maybe even get in four, five hours before morning.”

Buffy blinked at her. “You do research?” She sounded amazed.

Cordy turned to her, equally floored. “Your Watcher didn’t make you hit the books?”

“I, uh, didn’t even _see_ his books.” At her continued stare-fest, “Like, we didn’t have _time_. He met me, we trained a little, this big-vamp-in-town—Lothos—hit me up for some extracurricular, anti-Slayer hell-raising, he tried to vamp Merrick, Merrick died, Lothos vamped about half my school, I fought his whole nest, I torched my high school gym to take ‘em all down, I swallowed some smoke… and woke up in police custody with people saying I was nuts and needed to plead insanity. Bing-bang-boom, asylum-girl here, for the next eight-and-a-half months.”

“Damn,” Cordelia whispered, floored. “That sucks.” The very thought of being in a huge vamp-battle, seeing Giles die, winning her fight out of sheer, balls-out desperation… then being told she was going to be prosecuted for it and her only way out was to spend time in a mental hospital, was… “So, you haven’t been in school, or…”

Buffy shrugged, looking away, but Cordy saw the expression she’d tried to hide; pain, loss, embarrassment, and an old sort of strained agony. “Spike got me out, or I’d still be in the hospital. The Watchers knew I was there and left me there. I guess they didn’t know what to do with me. My mom couldn’t get me out, and my dad was scared to; scared I’d go to jail…”

/Man…/ “You didn’t have any friends who could… I guess, testify that you were…” It sounded dumb, with the vamps and everything, but it was such a horrible catch22! “Attacked, maybe, or…”

Buffy threw her a tight, ironic glance. “Yeah, ‘cause they’re gonna believe the disturbed pyro who burnt down her school gym.” 

/God./

“I had one friend who believed me,” she subsided after a moment. “Pike. A senior. He helped me fight. I have no idea where he is now, though. He saw his best friend vamped. He probably ran to Vegas or, like, Timbuktu after that whole deal.” Greenish eyes rose to touch on Cordy’s, liquid with sober concern. “Be glad you have those other kids on your side. And that you still have your Watcher, if you feel like you can trust him. You’re lucky. Hang onto ‘em.”

“Yeah,” Cordy answered quietly, flooded now with the uncomfortable realization that, however screwed up her life had been in the last year, it could have been so very much damn worse. 

An awkward silence fell between her and the other Slayer. 

“So, uh, where is this Ms. Calendar’s place?”

“Uh…” Cordelia scanned her memory. “Giles said it was off of Stevenson, by the community college.”

“Great. Which way is that?”

Cordelia got her bearings and did an about-face. “This way.”

They broke into a tandem jog, heading generally west. After about ten minutes, they found themselves facing a bank of fairly utilitarian-looking apartments. Cordelia headed directly for the steps. Behind her, Buffy paused, as if worried about bothering somebody. “So, uh, how friendly are you with this teacher? I mean, do you know the addresses of every teacher in your school? Because I know this is a small town, but we don’t roll like that in LA; just saying.”

Cordy didn’t even slow down. “Giles told me where she lived when I told him I was going to check in on her.”

“Oh.” Buffy appeared to find that slightly less worrying, and rejoined the upward march. “I guess that makes sense. Except… Uh, do all the teachers here know each other’s addresses, though?”

“They’re dating,” Cordy answered, short and clipped. “Or, at least they were, before all this went down.” Halting before the door in question, she rang the bell and waited.

No answer. 

Buffy drew even with her shoulder, frowned at the offending panel. “Maybe she’s out?”

Cordelia felt wrong about this. She couldn’t say why, but… 

Reaching out, she tried the knob. It turned, and the door swung inward. But only a few inches, before it hit something and ground to a halt. It was enough, though, for Cordy to see what it stuck on. 

The scene that graced her eyes once the door was open was not for the faint of heart. 

Jenny Calendar knelt on the floor just inside the apartment, bent over a bundle of clothing and blood, apparently sobbing. Under her hands lay the body of some old dude in a seriously out-of-date suit; someone very clearly dead. “Who…”

“He was my uncle,” Jenny informed them, her voice husky with tears. “Enyos. He was here to…” Her voice cracked. “To see to it I did my duty. To the family. When he found out I wasn’t…” She broke off again, the rest of her answer lost in a sob.

Cordelia sidled past the body, stepping over the askew legs, and further into the room. The apartment was pretty much what she would have expected from Jenny Calendar; tasteful décor, the occasional wall-hanging. Celtic designs, understated, earth-toned items, candles…

What she hadn’t expected, though, was the message scrawled up along the doorjamb. 

'Was it good for you?’ it asked, gleaming… because it was painted in the dead man’s blood. 

Probably Angelus would have done it broad and proud and derisive, splashed on the wall for all to see, if he could have gotten in. This, though, had had to do for a creature who hadn’t gotten permission to enter.

“He… struck so fast…” Jenny went on, shock now pervading her voice and huddled stance. “Enyos was here to…” Her voice bobbled slightly, cracked a little. “To tell me I was dead to him. For breaking the secrecy of our family. When I told you. When I helped you. He…”

/Well, shit./

“Then I went to see… who it was, knocking. He saw Angelus at the door. He tried to step in front of me. To save me from him. But then he…” 

The summary ended as the teacher dissolved again, into silent tears.

Cordelia’s eyes rose once more to the mordantly gleaming lettering next to her hand, on the frame of the door. 

This needed to end. 

* * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Twistng, twisting, tighter and tighter.

Don't worry. Things are about to crack.

(Also, Yes I held Oz back a little early, because it worked for my story. Meh.)


	16. Our Universe...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I have been freaking DYING to post this chap since I wrote it (painstakingly on the damn phone omg that sucked), because It's So Much Damned Fun. OMG. 
> 
> Anyway, yeah. As you can guess, this one's big. It's also a bit long, but this time, I REALLY doubt anyone's gonna mind. HEE! *kicks heels in glee*
> 
> (Oh, right. Um, not to be a downer, but CW for brief mention of what isn't quite suicidal ideation, since I took that warning out in my warnings, but mention of cutting in the past, and the mixed-up mess of thoughts that can come with that.)
> 
> And there's some more dialogue from "Innocence", to wrap that puppy up.

** Sec.16C: Our Universe… **

Buffy didn’t know what to say. Spike was right. This Angelus was a true bastard. 

Luckily, Cordelia apparently knew exactly what to say. Her mouth had turned to a flat line, and her eyes hardened to embers as she pivoted away from the terrible message, to face down the teacher they had come to see. “Jenny,” she said. One word, uttered on one breath; but there was so much buried in those two syllables that Buffy flinched. Demand, regret, frustration, sorrow, guilt, anger… A whole microcosm, shared between people who were part of something she only knew around the edges.

The teacher straightened slowly from her weeping arc over the body of her relative. “Rest in peace, Uncle,” she murmured, and brushed the dead eyes closed. Then, turning firmly, tear-marks still marring her lovely visage, she rose to her feet to face Cordelia head-on. “I just wanted you to know… that I’m sorry. I really am. And that… I didn’t know. Not really. I didn’t know what would happen. I swear. I was only told to try to keep you two apart. That was all. They never told me… what could happen…”

Cordelia flung a hand up. “Look. It’s over. Way past done. We have to deal with the fallout, now. And I gotta say, it looks like you’ve paid. You, him… all of you. So, let’s drop it, huh?”

“No,” the older woman whispered, sounding stricken. Her dark eyes, a mess of smudged mascara and pain, poured agony as she insisted. “You need to know that… I really didn’t know what would happen after. I was just here to ensure that he paid for…” She stuttered briefly to a halt, and her face closed up in some kind of ancient grief. “For what he did to my people.”

Cordelia frowned, clearly stuck somewhere between frustrated and curious. “Your people? Who the heck are ‘your people’?”

“Clan Kalderash,” the tall woman informed them with a sort of quiet pride. “I’m actually… I was born Janna Kalderash. My people are Romany; descendants of the clan who cursed him, when he destroyed one of our most beloved young women, in 1898. He’s been paying ever since.” Her eyes opened then, and Buffy thought she saw sincere shame, sincere apology in them, as she looked on Cordelia. “I didn’t know what would… happen. Until after. Not… like this. If I did… I would have told you more. I swear.”

Cordelia stared back at her for a long moment. “If you’re from the people who cursed him, you can put it back.”

Ms. Calendar (Kalderash?) recoiled immediately. “I can’t.”

“You’re a witch. You can do it…”

/She’s a  _ witch? _ What…/

“I can’t. I mean… those magicks are long lost even to  _ my _ people! Much less…”

Cordelia stalked one long stride closer; got right into the teacher’s face. “You listen to me right now. You  _ owe _ me. And you can say ‘technopagan’ all you want, but we all know what that means. And I’ve heard you talking with Giles; about Ethan Rayne’s spells, all of it. You understand magicks, and your people did it once. It might not be too late to save him, so I expect you to give it your best shot. Because this is bigger than any of us.” Her eyes darted over to the body on the floor beside them. “He just learned that.”   
  
The woman dropped her eyes to the dead man, then nodded slowly. “I… He thought we were wrong to let you two be together, because it was lessening his suffering. He thought the curse breaking was a good thing, because it meant you’d have to kill him. Our vengeance would be served. He didn’t care about the evil Angelus would perpetrate in the interim, till you could bring yourself to slay him, and I…” Dark eyes rose to flicker briefly over Buffy’s face, then settled, now steady, on Cordelia’s. “He was wrong; about all of it. And now he’s gone.” And she nodded once more; this time decisively. “I can try.”

Cordelia nodded back; a sharp gesture of acceptance. “That’s all I ask.” She turned back to Buffy, then, brisk and businesslike. “In the meantime, I’ve got a vampire to put down.” Her eyes didn’t dart back to the message on the doorjamb… but it was clear what she was thinking of as she turned on her heel and headed through the exit.

Buffy hesitated, then turned her gaze briefly on the mourning woman, before she followed. “I’m really sorry about your uncle…”

“Yes, he…” Ms. Calendar began softly, and then appeared to switch gears, her eyes troubled as they rose from their contemplation of the body to meet Buffy’s. “Thank you.” There was a world of pain in her voice as she said it. 

Buffy sent her a brief nod before following Cordelia out.

***

“So, essentially, the Judge’s parts will have to be shipped in from all over the world, if they are to assemble it successfully…” 

Spike, who had arrived at the kiddies’ little clubhouse only just, found himself rolling his eyes at the way the sod seemed determined to drag out his explanation for an age and a half. 

He wondered where the bloody hell Buffy might have got to.

He didn’t have to wonder long, though. His girl exploded through the double doors in a second, the other chit right at her shoulder. And it seemed they were bursting with news, they two, the way they were chattering as they blew in. 

“Jenny’s uncle’s been killed by Angelus,” the Sunnydale bird broke into her Watcher’s exegesis, sounding ready to spit nails. “He left me a nice message. ‘Was it good for you?’”

“Oh, man…” the boy murmured, turning exceedingly pale.

Spike exhaled a bit and set to examining his nails. “Yeah, that sounds about Angelus’ sort of game.” He flicked his eyes up to assess the chit only briefly, before settling his gaze for a much longer perusal of the only Slayer who truly mattered. How was Buffy handling seeing a dead bloke, then? One done in by Angelus, and such a pithy and stark message left behind? No doubt in blood, knowing Peaches.

She seemed disturbed, to his eyes, but holding herself together. Christ, she made a man proud to know her. And, as she met his gaze, he thought he saw her give him a bit of a nod, as if to say, ‘I’m right, and you?’

In case that was the message, he nodded back a tad. Just to be comradely about things. And for a moment, he thought he saw a brief, fleeting smile touch the corners of her lips, if a slightly sad one for the exigencies of the moment. 

“Well,” the other chit announced, swinging on him without preamble, “since you’re so knowledgeable, tell me what I should do next to cut him off at the pass. Because I’m  _ so _ over this. If he keeps this up I’m gonna  _ geld _ the jerk.”

A snort of unexpected mirth caught Spike sideways, and he couldn’t help the chuckle that rose, dangerously close to a titter at the thought. “Oh, luv, please do. Then we’d all get the joy of finding out, do bollocks grow back?” The thought sent him into full-on guffaws, bent over, hands to his knees. “Though, granted,” he got it out, “the ponce would be hell to live with for the next several months, wouldn’t he? Imagine the whinging…” And he lost it again, gasping as if he needed the air for anything. Christ, he’d needed that laugh.

Everyone in the room was staring at him as he straightened up. “What? None of you had to live with the git for twenty years while he taught you ‘manners’ and shagged your girl.” Shaking it off, he headed for Buffy. “You done for the night, luv, or you still need to help out for a bit?”

Verdant, worried eyes touched his, and a warm hand stole out to catch his palm, bring it between hers. The gesture stopped him cold. “There isn’t anything you can tell us that might help?”

/Oh, hell./ “He wants you to join him,” he informed the other girl flatly, without tearing his eyes from Buffy’s face. “He’ll keep on till you do; to give him the reins he doesn’t have anymore, now Darla’s dust. He wants you to come to him or put him down, and he’ll keep on till you do one or the other. So you’ll have to choose; do you want him to dust or do you want him to heel. It’s one or the other; and only one ends with him alive.” He allowed a faintly sardonic air to touch his final words. "Or whatever passes for it, for us."

Behind Buffy’s head, past her troubled eyes, the Sunnydale Slayer’s voice went flat. “I don’t accept that. There has to be another option.” And she flipped her hair as she turned from him to face her team. “Jenny’s trying to work up a new curse…”

Buffy’s voice broke in, worried to his ears. “Once he knows she’s trying to figure that out, he’ll kill her next, won’t he.”

He couldn’t lie to her face. “Yeah, most like.”

She nodded, eyes dropping from his to study their joined hands. “Then I should protect her, while Cordelia’s chasing him around and dealing with this Judge thing…”

Spike groaned. “Pet, we need to get Dru and get the bloody hell out of here, before your mother comes haring up from LA to drag you back to Sherman Oaks by your lovely golden hair…” He lifted a forefinger, unable to resist a light brush to her cheek.

Her head lifted, and her eyes seemed to kindle on his. “I… If we help with the Judge thing, with the Angelus thing… That’s pretty much the only way we’re gonna get her out of here, right?” she asked him softly, and Christ, was her face always this luminous, her eyes so intent on his? She could set him afire, looking at him with so much faith, so much belief. “We have to help, Spike, or this whole thing is just gonna end in more death and destruction, and we’ll never get to go home.”

“Oh, fucking hell; alright.” He could gainsay her nothing, and he bloody well knew it. “Right, then.” It came out a bit snappish, but a man could sound that way when he was trapped. “Fine. The old berk over there says to keep an eye on the ports. That bits of the Judge will be coming in from ships and the like, since the last time the sodding thing was dismembered, they left chunks of it buried all over the bloody globe. If we can keep even one piece of it away from Dru’s little search party—since no doubt she’ll be making minions right and left to locate the git—then they won’t be able to put Humpty Dumpty back together again, and that’s one less thing to be worried about, innit.”

“Alright,” Buffy breathed at him, and smiled on him like the sun. “Thank you. That’s what we’ll do. We’ll watch the ports, and watch Jenny Calendar, and… And hopefully this will be over soon.”

Spike closed his eyes briefly, unable to stand it, being this close to the whirling, burning centre of something he didn’t think he could stand, and not break. “Dunno. Somehow, something tells me it’s not like to be that easy, love.”

***

Watching over Jenny Calendar was relatively easy, considering Angelus was a lot less of a daredevil, sun-wise, than Spike was even on a lazy day. Buffy just sort of switched to Spike-hours and sat on the school and the apartment evenings and nights, while her vampire spent most of his waking hours casing the port and the wharves and hanging around various demon-haunts, and reportedly getting himself invited to skanky demon-only poker games and stuff like that, so that he could get the skinny on what might be coming into town through ‘unofficial channels’. Which was, apparently, quite a lot.

Sunnydale sounded like it had a heckuva demon black-market going. Following up on all of it was kind of a full-time job. And winnowing through all of that to figure out which shipments were the most likely candidates for Judge-ness was a whole other issue. 

Which was how they ended up on pier three together a few nights later, watching a giant-ass cargo ship come into port, while Buffy rubbed her chilled hands together and wondered whether she’d get back to LA in time for Thanksgiving dinner, which was literally all of six days away now. Mom was at this point freaking out on the phone every single call now; which was fair, since Buffy had been up here in Sunnydale for over a week, and this was getting ridiculous. “I hope nothing happens to Ms. Calendar while we’re out here.”

“Relax, luv. The Watcher’s with her. She’ll get on alright. And Peaches can’t get into her flat without permission, yeah? Already proved it, so she’s safe enough long as she doesn’t go prancing off to get her hair done or some bloody thing…”

“Yeah, I know. It’s just anxious-making.” Buffy’s eyes roved over the approaching ship, waiting for the sailors to make dock or whatever they called it; throw all the ropes over the sides, and tie the ship to the cleat-things, and all the other stuff ship-people did to secure a boat to the harbor or the quay or whatever it was called. She’d probably remember more if she’d have actually read _ Moby Dick _ instead of skipping it to watch the movie last year. But, okay; that had literally been the most boring book in the history of all writing, and she just couldn’t make herself do it.

Anyway. Docking stuff. Keeping an eye out for someone stealthy, carrying away something not-so-smallish and in-a-crate-ish, and looking sneaky about it. Which…

“Check. Four o’clock.”

“Yeah. Got him.” Spike dropped the cigarette he’d only just lit, ground it beneath his boot, and gave her a tight nod as he stepped out from under the eaves of the warehouse that had hidden them both in shadow. “Go get him, Slayer.”

Buffy donned her ‘perky’ persona and stepped out, bubbly as they came, to run right smack into the guy… who almost dropped his huge crate in the collision. “Oh hi I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed, all airheadedness and concern and run-on sentences. “I’m just so lost, do you know how to get to downtown? I was at the beach, and I took a wrong turn, and… Oh, wow, I’m sorry, I almost made you drop your box; wow, that’s huge! What the heck are you carrying; you need one of those…” She made a pushy-pully movement with her hands. “A whatsitcalled? A dolly…”

The guy blinked at her as if uncertain what to do with this flood of bright babble. “Oh. I… You okay, miss? Uh, I’m… It’s fine, it’s just…” He appeared to shake himself. “Sorry, I’ve got to go, I have to meet… someone.”

“I think you already have, mate,” Spike informed him, stepping out from behind a huge coil of something. Apparently the babble-show had worked, since he was now all the way over on the far side of their mark, having sidled around them during Buffy’s distraction attempts. 

Now bracketed between two interceptors, the messenger got decidedly antsy. “Hey, listen; I don’t want any trouble. I have to go, I have to deliver…”

“Nope, not today,” Buffy interrupted cheerily, and relieved him of the crate—which was majorly heavy, by the way—and handed it over to Spike. Definitely not light, since he also grunted slightly as he took it on. “Watch that,” she offered smartly. “It’s, what’s the word. Unwieldly.”

Spike made a twisted sort of face. “Thanks for the warning, pet. Hell, what’s the sodding thing made of; steel? Granite?” He shifted the crate under one arm, securing it to his side. “Glad to oblige, mate. Best get right back on your ship and hope you’re out of town before Dru and Angelus find out you’ve lost them this bit of their prize, innit, or they’ll slice your head off for you afore long, I s’pect…”

The messenger stared at them in horror before turning on his heel and dashing off the way he’d come.

“Tootaloo,” Buffy called after him, waving cutely with her fingertips, then dropped the act and leaned back against the coiled… whatever the heck it was to inspect her nails. “Well. That went well.” 

Spike grunted again and, shifting the crate a little more, turned to head toward the edge of the quay. “Well, best be off, luv. I’ve my own ship to catch…”

She promptly abandoned her lazy pose to jog over and catch him sharply, by the simple expedient of grabbing his free hand. He stared at her in surprise as she spun him sharply around, right there on the water’s edge. “You one-hundred-percent better not take any chances, do you hear me? You drop the stupid thing off in the harbor the second you think it’s deep enough, and then you jump in after it and haul butt back to shore, alright? If I even think of you burning up in the sun, I get the wig…” Something about the idea of him dusting in the rising light made a huge, terrified lump rise in the back of her throat, made her eyes burn with unshed tears. This whole plan had frightened her no end from the very start. She’d been dead set against it, but no one else had been on her side, so in the end it was her against the whole group. And after all, Spike had volunteered, so…

“Hey.” His free hand broke loose to rise, cup her cheek. “Hush, luv. Listen. We’ve got this all figured, alright? The ship I’m on pulls out in only an hour. That leaves plenty of night for me to do this. And I’m about to tell you something no one else knows but you, me, and Angelus; or at least, no one else who’s alive, anyroad.” His eyes had softened, looking on her, to that one look; the one she knew was for her and no one else. “Once, back in forty-three, I had to swim for shore from a submarine. Fifteen miles, racing the rising sun the whole bloody way, and I made it, yeah? So this? What? Two, three miles, tops? No problem, alright? I’ll be back here ready to drive you mad again long before the sun’s up.”

She closed her eyes, part of her drinking in the easy reassurance and part of her still shaking. She was not even entirely sure why she was freaking out. “You promise?” she pled, and heard the faint tremble in her voice that said she couldn’t lose him. /I really just can’t./

Her eyes popped open when she felt his hand rise to brush her cheek once more, this time a little more lingeringly. “I promise you, Buffy.” And something in his eyes, in his voice, made her ask before she could even question it, before she could pull it back; before she could even think to wonder why she was being a moron. 

“Do you love me, Spike?”

An instant later, she wished it back, but it was out now, and… And she started to babble, because she was stupid, she was  _ so _ stupid, what was she  _ thinking? _ “It’s just, Dru said… And there was all that stuff about Hades and Persephone, and I looked it up in that one book about Greek mythology, and it sounded like…”

“Yeah,” he interrupted her quietly, and it had the quality of an admission made after a long and painful time spent holding back. And then his face creased in something that looked like amusement and self-deprecation all mixed together, while she was still standing there gaping at him in amazement. “And it’s been a real soddin’ drag on my reputation, I’ll have you know, dammit, Buffy. Real bleedin’ hard bein’ the Big Bad when you’re a vamp in love with a soddin’ Slayer…”

“Wh… You’re…” She couldn’t believe this. Believe what he was saying. This couldn’t actually be  _ real _ , could it? “No, that’s…” She shook her head once in negation. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

He stilled and dropped his hand, staring at her. “Why doubt it, Buffy?” he demanded, if very, very softly. “You’re everything I’ve searched for for over a hundred years.” 

She found herself staring, still unable to believe. “I just don’t even know what to do with that, because, okay. I have the most ginormous crush on you…” God, she was still babbling, she probably sounded like such an idiot, still, but she could no more stop herself than stop a flood. “…And it might even be more, but I don’t  _ know _ , because I’m just a stupid kid; how do I even know  _ anything _ , but you’re just so great, and I…”

Thankfully, he stopped her by the simple expedient of tugging her in, to hold her to his chest. And oh, god, it was so  _ good _ to be hugged by him. To be this close, finally. To be pressed to his long, cool, lean form; to subside against the strength there that felt equal to her own, and to know there was no reason to run or hide anymore, because he  _ knew _ , and he wasn’t annoyed or horrified or…

Also,  _ god _ , he smelled good. 

She turned her face into the hollow below his throat, closed her eyes, and fought for stability, wondering just what the heck she should say, or do… And felt every last little shred of thought driven from her head when his hand rose from between her shoulder blades to run gently from the crown of her head down her hair in long, soothing strokes. “It’s fine, love,” he rumbled under her ear, pleasantly assured and sounding, to her surprise, oddly relieved. “Don’t worry; it'll keep. There’s plenty of time to figure all that out. You’ve plenty of time, and so have I.” His hand rising, pressing, falling, was a metronome of comfort and certitude. “Let’s just sort out this business, for now, and leave it at that.” And she heard it then; the amusement creeping back into his voice. “Besides, I promised your mum I’d not touch you, yeah? She’ll bloody well gut me if I broke my word, innit?”

The jocular admission startled a choked laugh from her, though most of it was lost in his shoulder-slash-neck. “Oh, jeez. As if my mom’s scarier than I am…”

His tones turned rueful. “Oh, pet, you’ve no sodding idea…”

His teasing repartee was cut off by a strange, high-pitched  _ thwip. _ Buffy felt something sharp and almost burning cut into the back of her head, scoring a fiery trench into her scalp and parting her hair with a fierce, if minuscule, wind. More concerning, she felt the impact on him as if it had struck her, as he staggered back with a low, grunting sigh, teetered away, out of her embrace, sagged slightly with a startled exhale, dropped the heavy bundle in his arms… and toppled right over the edge of the wharf into the water. 

The crate holding whatever part of the Judge landed hard, cracking open like an egg on the edge of the quay. Whatever was inside—some sandstone-looking something wrapped in rag-like packing material—bounced off the thick, tarred boards with a sickening  _ smack _ and ricocheted into the water with a resounding  _ plop _ .

Buffy barely noted the artifact’s fate. It could be recovered later. Spike, though…

She was already arcing in a dive, without thought, after her vampire.

The water was chilly, this time of year, and dirty, here in this industrial backwater that was the harbor. Filled with pollutants, it burned the injury on her scalp, though that hardly signified. Looking through it was nastier still, but she didn’t think about that as she sought for him in the diesel-tinged brine. 

The water, thick with silt and a faint skim of trash and lit only by the harbor’s widely-spaced floodlights, was incredibly murky, so the prospect of finding a guy who wore almost entirely black clothing was dim indeed… but thank goodness for small mercies, he was still obsessed with dying his hair. She found him in fifteen feet of water by the waving, idiotically-bright curls he tried to hide under all that gel, grabbed him by a handful of it, dragged his head back. He looked half-conscious, dazed, and he was making less than zero attempts to rescue himself… but he wasn’t dust. Whatever it was hadn’t gotten his heart… probably because her head had been covering it at the moment, thank god.

Grabbing him by the lapels of the duster, she dragged him upward, kicking with all of her might. /Dammit, Spike,  _ help _ me!/ 

But for whatever reason, he didn’t seem capable. /What did whatever that was  _ do _ to you?/ God, she was panicking. But she could use that, and did, doubling down on the adrenaline to drag his heavy ass up through the nearly pitch-black ocean, toward the greeny surface of the water. 

Lungs burning, she finally breached air, managed some sort of headlock, and, gasping and sputtering, dragged him over toward what looked like a sort of gravel gradient with a few old and broken pilings sticking out of it, off to the left. Everything there was covered in barnacles. Literally every single solitary surface. They cut into his limp hands, his neck, the back of his lolling head as she dragged him further up out of the water by his collars; dug hard and sharp into her jeans-clad knees as she fell to his side. “Spike, what’s wrong? What…” 

They were in shadow, here, but she could still make it out; an arrow, or a crossbow bolt, maybe, sticking out of his chest, only a few inches off to one side of where it would have been fatal, oh god… 

She lifted him, felt around under him, and dammit. It hadn’t gone through, was stuck inside him. 

Buffy stared around them wildly, seeking for ambushers. /Where…/ 

It would’ve been a high shot, considering the angle. /Someone from the roof of one of the warehouses? And far off, or it would’ve gone through…/

She could see no one scampering around up there now. Whoever it had been was long gone. Had they been after the Judge piece? Someone working for Angelus? Or was it someone who worked for the Master? Spike had said that his great-great was pissed off at him for bailing, before. Or…

/Stop. You can figure it out later, Buffy. Focus on him./ None of that mattered right now. Not when he was all… limp like this. 

A, if this bolt or whatever was making him so sick—a vampire, taken down like this by something that didn’t dust him? What was that?—then she most definitely had to get it out of him, and fast. Which meant hurting him worse; and definitely risking nicking his heart, but… “Spike, I need to pull this out. Work with me, okay?”

He mumbled something, low and husky. She couldn’t make it out at all, and bent low to put her ear to his lips. “What?”

He sounded terrible; almost mushy, but she caught it the second time. “Poisoned…”

/Oh. Shit./ 

Well, that would explain why he hadn’t swum up out of the bay by himself, why he was barely conscious, why he… Damn, had she ever felt a vampire starting to get an actual fever before? He felt almost lukewarm; like he’d just taken blood, which was freaking bizarre. And…

/Crap, I have to get this out of him  _ now _ ./ 

Cursing viciously under her breath, Buffy yanked the bolt out in one swift movement. Spike thrashed a little, but didn’t otherwise complain, and thank goodness, he didn’t dust, either. She set the offending weapon aside after only a swift glance in lieu of inspection. She’d have that Watcher-guy, Giles, look it over later, see if he could find out what the poison was by checking the barbs. Maybe they could figure out later who had it in for her guy. But in the meantime…

Buffy had a vague memory of some survival thing she’d heard once, in some class or something. Health class, maybe, about how you could suck poison or snake venom or whatever out of wounds, if you got to it fast enough. /And vamps don’t have circulation, right? So maybe there’s still time./ 

What the hell; it was worth a try. 

Bending over, she suited action to thought and, ripping his t-shirt open in the area in question, placed her mouth over the ragged hole and began to suck.

Spike promptly arched upward toward her, making a high, keening noise that she wasn’t sure was good or bad. Immediately after, he lapsed into a prompt and repetitive litany of “ohfuck ohfuckohfuck”s that sounded wildly ragged. At one point, his body spasmed, even, in a way that almost scared her, but…

At first, the blood in her mouth had a weird tang to it; a strange, cloying bitterness. She spat it away, of course, and kept on going. But she thought it was coming out cleaner now, coating the inside of her mouth with an oddly sweet, almost aromatic aftertaste that she had not expected, behind the normal flavor and scent of blood. And what with one thing and the other, she’d accidentally swallowed a bit of it here and there. /Definitely has to be coming out clean, now/ she thought. /I mean, that has to be his normal blood flavor, right? The other nasty stuff is gone./ And as she lifted away, the words came out; what she had been thinking all along. The entire time. She squeezed his hands as she said it, noting as she did so that they were, once more, chilled; that that alarming, rising heat had faded. “It’s okay, Spike. I’ve got you. No one’s gonna hurt my vampire…”

But he was still not responding, still seemed out of it. It was frightening, seeing him like that; his eyes rolled back in his head, his face weirdly sweaty—like, when did vamps ever sweat?—his expression an odd rictus, as if he were fighting something internal that he must win against at all costs. 

And then the realization struck her. /My blood. When she was sick, Drusilla needed my blood to heal her./

She didn’t remotely need to think about it. She just pulled up her sleeve. 

There was already a scar there, anyway; souvenir of one of her escape attempts back at the hospital. She’d been so desperate, then, so mazy, so lost, that she’d thought, at one point, that if she could just… 

It hadn’t been a suicide attempt, per se. More an attempt to end the confusion, cut out the pain, the whirling feeling that there was no ground to put her feet against. An attempt to find something  _ real _ to feel; somewhere to start from… And just maybe, to cut out the thing inside her that  _ they _ had wanted gone, so that they might someday set her free from there, let her go home.

This time, the scar would be as rough, as sudden and as gruesomely done… but it wouldn’t be ugly anymore. Not to her mind. This time, it would be done for better reason.

She used the broken shaft of the arrow to do it; sliced right over the old scar, gouging deep enough for the blood to well up. And then, cradling his limp head, she dragged his lolling skull over to her thigh and shoved her forearm unceremoniously to his lips. “No one’s gonna take my vampire from me, dammit,” she hissed, low and certain in the gloom. “You’re  _ mine _ , okay? Do you hear me, Spike? I’ll find whoever did this, and I’ll kick their asses for trying this. You don’t get to go anywhere, alright? You wake up and you look me in the eye and you tell me you’re staying right here, because I won’t accept any other answer, you get it?”

At first it was a passive act. But then, as the taste of her blood—her magickal Slayer blood—made its impact, his hands slowly rose, fumbling. Gained strength. Caught on her wrist, at her elbow, held her close. And the drawing feeling began. And… /Oh,  _ Go-od _ …/ She hadn’t expected it to feel like  _ that _ . Like… Like some kind of pulling, rhythmic, primitive… something that made her entire body thrum and stand up and take notice and… And she was starting to get incredibly embarrassed as the realization rose that she was getting… um… She was starting to feel…

Out of nowhere, Spike made a sharp sound, almost a snarl, and literally threw her arm away from him. The act caught her attention away from her… situation, and she stared at him, shocked at his abrupt transformation; not surprised at all by his being in his demon-face, but a little alarmed at his look of stunned horror. “Oh, fuck, oh Christ, Buffy, do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Buffy blinked, nonplussed, and shifted her other hand out from under his head to cup his cheek. Glancing down at her injured forearm, she was surprised to see that it was already closing up, now that he’d stopped sucking at it. /Huh. That’s weird./ 

Turning her attention back to her vampire, she put on her best no-nonsense tone. “Saved you from some kind of weird poisoning, you dope. Duh.” At his continued, horror-stricken expression, she faltered. “What? Slayer blood, right? It’s all…” She waved a hand around her head, wordless for the nonce. “Mass-healer-y?”

His demon-face faded. His stricken blue eyes closed abruptly, as if she’d stolen all his strength from him. “Oh, love, oh bloody hell… Yeah, you’ve healed me, but you’ve also bonded me as yours.”

/Okay, huh?/ “As…”

His eyes opened again, steady now on hers; oddly regretful, and yet convinced of something all-encompassing. “As in, I belong to you.” And, while she was still processing this, he snorted derisively. “Hell; as if I didn’t already. Of course, I accepted the hell out of it. Was too soddin’ out of my head to remember anything like propriety, or that you’re too bloody young, and should have the time to grow into yourself, or any other damned thing. Fuck me all to hell, I’m sorry Buffy, but I did, and it’s done.” 

Buffy opened her mouth, uncertain what to say to this shocking disclaimer. /Why are you sorry?/ “What does that…” /What does this mean?/ “I mean, what happens… now?”

Worried blue eyes gazed on her, filled with uncertainty. “Hell if I know, Buffy. Hell if I bloody know.”

/Oh. Well, that’s fun./

***

The poison on the arrow turned out to be something specifically spelled to do in a vampire, which was interesting, since there were so many possible takers who’d might want to knock him off and have him out of the bloody running, the way he’d come swooping back in to take these Slayers’ part in things. He supposed he could see Angelus doing it, since Spike had betrayed his own family to aid the chits—though he did have a bit of a tough time imagining Dru allowing ‘daddy’ to stoop to offing her knight. No doubt if Peaches was behind the thing, it was without her knowledge, and she’d be that put out about it once she found out the use to which he’d put her hapless gaggle of minions. 

But then, that was the way of things, wasn’t it? She might’ve made the tossers, but that didn’t mean she got to command them. Not when there was an elder vamp of the same blood in the nest. 

Angelus was in charge; and would be, till they rode this one out.

Course, it could always be that it was old Heinrich himself in charge of the assassination attempt. Head of the Lineage, and that, since Spike had certainly, to the old sod’s mind, wronged him and badly by taking on the charge a month and change ago, only to hare off leaving the local Slayer intact and the job not only unfinished, but executed badly to boot. He could see Nest doing him just on principle, for having had the stones to return to his town at all, much less to waltz into the territory and declare himself on the side now of the Slayers, and not his blood. 

Though, an arrow through the heart, poisoned with magicks or no, wasn’t so much old Batface’s style. He was more of a ‘make an example in front of the entire nest’ sort of a prick. If he’d gotten a yen for Spike’s blood, he was more likely to have had him dragged down into whatever passed in the old ponce’s mind for a palace-slash-den-of-religious-inequity, have him shoved to his knees in front of all the bastard’s surviving heirs and minions, so his head could be slowly and agonizingly parted from his neck before everyone who might need a reminder of the price of betrayal. 

Though, granted, considering the dent Buffy and the other chit had made in the ranks in the last week and a bit, maybe the old sod didn’t have enough minions right now to manage that sort of theater—or not comfortably anyway—and so he’d settled for swift and brutal utility. Dust was, after all, dust, and a complication gone and an example made was still one, whether it were done long-distance or close to. And for the rest of that lot, to know that Nest wouldn’t turn a hair or show a qualm at destroying his own—and quite famous, indeed amazingly precocious—great-grandchilde might in fact make enough of a statement on its own, whether it was done down in the git’s lair or not.

Also, of course, there was another option, though Spike thought it a bit outside the realm of likelihood at the moment. According to the locals, there was a bloke sitting in the mayor’s chair in town who, though human (or at least something like), was very much in with every demon gang, lordling, and sect in town, and in fact paid them all tribute. Some said he wasn’t, as the humans thought, the nth descendant of the first Mayor of Sunnydale, but was in fact the same bloke, kept alive by some sort of fountain of youth spell or some sodding thing, and that he was hungry for more power still. Figured, if he was. Spike had met the sort in the past; dabbling at first in the supernatural just to see what it was about, only to become obsessed, and in the end either consumed by it, or allowing it to consume so that they might become a part of it. For all the good that ever did a mortal. 

As a general rule, sacrificing one’s humanity in order to become part of the demon world usually meant that whatever one had been before was mostly gone in the end, a casualty of the game. But the mayor’s long-con wasn’t Spike's concern, so long as the prat hadn’t tried to off him. And the only reason Spike could think that the tosser might’ve attempted it might be because he was watching events with interest, and wanted Angelus and the Master to duke it out for control of the town’s underbelly, so he’d know in the end who to pay tribute to when it came to the vampire end of things. Granted, having two incredibly powerful master vampires in town kicking up trouble wasn’t the best for business. Not when you were dabbling in demon-politics, and not especially when they were of the same lineage, but not working together. Angelus was indeed playing an idiotic game, thinking he could become the power in town so long as Nest was still extant, and not dust; trying to run things up top while old Batface remained in power from below, but trapped by his fool magickal shield or whatever the bloody hell it was. 

Come to that… 

/Hell; the Slayers should just let Peaches run himself into the wall. He goes on much longer, he’ll cause Nest too much trouble, and granddaddy will have him assassinated, with no need for the chits to break any nails. They can take a powder, then come back and deal with Batface in their own time, while he’s still down a few childer from the war./

Only problem being, with Dru on hand, and Angelus being the sneaky, retiring—or, rather, to Spike’s mind, fucking cowardly—prick that he was, it was never likely to come to an all-out war. Angelus didn’t want a fight with Nest for the territory; or, not one he couldn’t win, anyway. It was why he was continually baiting the other Slayer. Only reason he was likely still in the bloody burgh at all, that chit. He wanted her for himself, sure; but he also wanted to join forces with her to do in his grandsire. He wanted to make use of her to do what he wouldn’t, and upset the power-balance in town, so that he might set himself up in it whilst there was a vacuum following Batface’s fall, and while all the rest of the Aurelians—and the scattered, demoralized locals—were reeling from the shock of it. Which was, when you got right down to it, the hell of a cagey plan, and definitely right up Angelus’ sly alley. 

Sodding slick bastard. He wouldn’t go face to face against a superior force if you paid him. /Never did go into any fight unless it was one you already knew you were gonna win, did you, pops?/ 

Christ, the sonofabitch was predictable.

But he sure the bloody hell wanted that Cordelia bird. /Her quim must’ve been the next best thing to god herself, by your lights, eh? Fuck./ Chit had his grandsire all spun about and upside-fucking-down, if he was thinking of putting her in place of Darla and trying to run a sodding territory with her. /Wanting to corrupt a Slayer? That’s sodding well ambitious!/

He might very well manage it, too, if Spike read the girl aright. She loved the prat, was wavering a bit over dusting him. There was room there. /We need to get the fuck out of here and leave them to it. Grab Dru and…/ 

No sense wasting time trying to figure if it was this human mayor prat had tried to do him, or if it was Nest. Best to just get the fuck out and be done with it. Especially considering it was doubtful in the extreme that the human player had had anything to do with Spike’s unfortunate wounding. The only motivation the sod might have to do it would be to remove a third inconvenient chesspiece from the business; one aiding the Slayers, and thus causing the contest between Angelus and Nest to go a bit sideways. But when one thought about it, the Slayers’ presence, even if there were two—which might, Spike suspected, be a bit concerning to a paper-pusher like the mayor was meant to be—still remained a nice check-and-balance on the whole thing. Without meaning to, they would act as a sort of buffer-zone between one such as him and a too-overwhelming labyrinth of tributes to be paid and egos to be soothed. This human bloke could just sit back, let the fighters settle their scores, and then once the dust settled he could come wading back in all slick, oily smiles, grease the right palms… Have his cake and eat it too, as the saying went.

No, despite the pros and cons of it all, Spike’s money was on Nest; and hell, that was a ruddy awful thought. Because what it meant was, this wouldn’t be the last time someone would be coming after him. /And next time, they won’t be using something a simple as a soddin’ arrow from a rooftop./

No, they needed to be gone. Soon as they could pry Dru away from Angelus; preferably while she was reeling from the fallout of this Judge fiasco. If whatever plan this lot were working up came off, and the business with the monster fell apart, Dru would fall apart with it, for the moment. It would be the perfect time to grab her up and run, while she was still in freefall from the denouement. /We’ll pick her up, toss her in the DeSoto, leave this whole fucking disaster behind. And then Buffy and I can…/ 

He faltered then, and picked up gamely with an internal snort at his own unusual reticence. /We can just get out of it, is all. Figure the rest as we go./ Because really, whatever his girl thought, they had fuck-all to do with any of this. And the business with his being shot at and the rest? He could do without it, whatever he’d told the Slayer to make light of the business, and see that terror and agony gone from her gorgeous eyes. If it was Nest had done it, put a contract out… /We need to be hell and gone from here, and to  _ hell _ with this hellmouth business, and Nest, and Angelus, and any other fucking thing that’s going down in this shitehole!/ 

He could convince Buffy the other chit would do well enough without them, once they'd reclaimed Dru and shoved off. After all, Masters didn’t like it when private contractors came into town and attempted to set up their own enterprises. Angelus wasn’t long for this world, if this Judge business didn’t work out for him, the ambitious bastard. Without that sort of firepower, he had little future here, in a territory already claimed by one greater than he. He was benefitting only by the fact that things were muddied up with a big fat fucking Slayer presence, and that Nest was currently trapped. If that weren’t the case…

/What if it  _ was _ Angelus?/

Would his sire-in-all-but-name do that to him? Because he’d interfered with the prat’s plans for the other Slayer?

Spike flashed back to that one awful, suspended moment when he’d heard the incoming bolt, aimed for his heart. When he’d felt the impact, smelt Buffy’s blooming blood and known it had harmed her, as well. When he’d heard her alarmed cries, even as the poison had begun its work in him, sending him into unwilling darkness. He cringed to think about it, of course, because not only had she been injured in the attempt… but now that Buffy had inadvertently claimed him as hers, if something did happen to him, she’d feel it. The loss of him would throw her entirely into a tailspin, from which, considering the current situation here in town, she might never recover in time. /I need to convince her somehow that we need to get out of it, is all./ 

Otherwise, if he couldn’t…

/If they do get me, ever… Fucking Angelus might off her while she’s still spinning, feeling me gone. She’d just be the recipient of a great load of leftover luck, and go the way every other Slayer has, since time bloody immemorial./ 

/ _ No _ ./ Wasn’t going to happen. He’d promised himself that  _ this _ one, at least, was going to live longer than three fucking sodding goddamned years!

He knew he wouldn’t be able to convince her to leave till the Judge business was finished; and hell. He was unlikely to pry Dru out of Angelus’ arms till then either. They’d need the shock of it to knock her loose from her ‘daddy’. So there, then, would be his moment. He would just have to endeavor to stay alive—as it were—and undusty, as his girl would put it, till that moment was past, and then pick up both chits, sling them under his arms, toss them in the bloody car, and put the hammer down to get them the fuck out of this piece of shite town before anything worse happened. Put all his efforts to it; and not just because he’d vowed to see to it that the girl came out of this alright and ready to go back to her life without further bloody damage.

His eyes fell to where she stood, with the rest of the children who were for some sodding reason all caught up in this fight which, truly, belonged only to Slayers, the Watcher, vampires, and their ken. Buffy was gesturing broadly as she illustrated some point to the other one, the rest watching with varying levels of incredulity showing on their faces. Spike stood back on the lower steps of the wee stairway that led up to the bookshelves and surveyed the scene, mostly caught up in the ballet of her fluid pantomime. Christ, she was animated; fully involved. And yet, about every few minutes she would turn, glance over to him now, as if checking in with him, to see how he was doing. 

As if she were making sure he was still there. As if she couldn’t feel his presence, and, /Christ. What the bloody fuck are we going to do about this?/

Fuck, what was he going to tell her  _ mother? _ /Er, sorry about it, but I was damn near unconscious, bloody well out of it from poison, so when the girl decided to quite literally suck the rubbish from me, I was so soddin’ sent, so bloody beyond myself about it that I reckon I lost what was left of my everloving fucking mind and gave m’self over utterly to her… and yeah. Here we are. She owns me proper. Here’s the deed. So now, how it goes, Mum, is, I can’t go more’n about, well… Few miles from her, ever again, and I’ll gladly throw myself into a bonfire for her, so you might as well get used to seein’ me about…/

Not that he bloody well hadn’t been ready to do all that as it was, but it hadn’t been so much of a compulsion, before. 

Now, it thrummed in his blood like a pulse.  _ Her _ pulse, flowing through him, and Christ, they were fucked. 

He jerked back to the present, out from the contemplation of his own reactions, when he felt Buffy’s eyes on him again, this time looking at him as if she were waiting for something. The expression with which she favored him, the expectant feeling in his blood, drew him out of his anxious, near-fuming study, and he uncrossed his arms and straightened (as was meet when one was facing down the person who held one’s bond). “Yeah? Sorry, pet. Was woolgathering.”

“I said, what exactly did it feel like?”

/Bloody hell./ He’d no sodding context for this query. “Come again, love? Which thing?”

She looked like she was about to stamp her foot at him. She looked brassed, and hell if she wasn’t a sight, afire with irritation, even if it was at him. “Dammit, Spike, pay attention! The arrow! The poison!”

“Oh.” He considered it, her frustration rolling off of him like water off a duck’s arse. “Ah, yeah. Like a burning running through every vein. Like I was fevered; which was a strange bloody feeling, let me tell you, after over six score years since I’d had one.” Behind the Slayers, he thought he saw the Watcher’s lips twitch, and re-crossed his arms. “Dunno, Buffy. Felt like bein’ poisoned, is what.”

His girl huffed. “That’s not helpful, unfortunately.” Turning, she shot the Watcher, Rupert, a glare. “I’m going to figure out who did it. If it was the town’s mayor…”

“I still can’t get over that he’s doing business with the demons in town!” the boy exclaimed, sounding stunned.

“Let it go, Xander,” the other Slayer cut him off. “Problem for another time.”

“Okay, but…”

“If it was Angelus,” Buffy went on flatly, “then I’m sorry, Cordelia, but he’s dust.”

The willowy chit frowned slightly. “You know, considering everything else he’s done lately, it sounds dumb for me to say this—I mean, like I know him anymore, right?—but it really doesn’t sound like his style. And also, I just don’t see him getting away with it with Miss Crazypants right there on his ass every second. I mean, she still loves him, right?”

Spike might protest the designation she’d landed on for his sire, but he couldn’t fault her reasoning. Hell, Dru might even consider leaving her daddy—at least, very briefly—if he’d tried to assassinate her knight. He was, after all, her baby, and she was still quite fond indeed of him, end of the affair or no.

“We’ll see,” Buffy continued as if she’d never been interrupted. “And If it was Nest, then I guess I’m going to war against the king of Sunnydale.”

The Watcher choked. Spike nearly did as well. “Bloody fuck, pet, don’t be daft. You can’t just…”

Her eyes burned as she locked in on him, like a fucking missile. “Don’t  _ even _ start. If your own great- _ grandfather _ just tried to kill you—for helping  _ me _ , by the way?—then he’s dust. Do not pass Go, do not collect a single other human soul. The End. I  _ will _ kill him. And anyone else who ever touches you again. You’re  _ mine _ , dammit, Spike.”

Spike couldn’t drag his eyes away from hers. Her words produced the most minute, but almost continuous shiver of intense loyalty, running through his very being. It also gave him the most wildly uncomfortable stiffy imaginable, but he scarcely noticed it, the way he was feeling.

He was vaguely aware, framed behind her, of the way the Watcher flinched at her verbiage. “Ah, Buffy, I’d take care in how I approached the subject of… ah… vampire-Slayer relations; at least insofar as…”

Buffy flung up a hand to cut him off, and answered without even turning her head away from Spike to look at him. “Cordelia has her vampire, I have mine. You don’t get an opinion. No Watcher does, ever again.” Her eyes remained rooted in Spike’s gaze. “And as far as…”

“As far as Nest…” Spike breathed, the tremors within him growing to something almost warming.

“Yes, as far as the Master is concerned—that is who we are discussing, I gather?” the Watcher broke in once more, sounding uncertain.

“Yeah, uh, I know I’m low man on the totem-pole here,” the boy broke in again, “but put me down on the side of no starting wars with the local vamp-king. Especially when we’re already, you know, at war with another master vamp who’s made no bones about being pissed off at us…”

The redheaded girl standing next to him remained silent, her eyes wide and darting from one speaker to another as she took in the tense standoff. 

“Yes, I rather think,” the Watcher started again, gamely.

Buffy cut him off once more, before he could get up any steam. “He’s just another vampire. And I have one here who knows the ins and outs of Aurelian life fairly well. And, frankly, I think dealing with one Aurelian master at a time is enough.” Something in her eyes changed, from anger to decision. “If he’s gonna come after us, then I think it’s time to simplify the situation…”

“B… but… the Judge?” the redhead broke in, damn near stammering out the bit about how they already had a current calamity in the making. 

“Actually,” the boy answered her, straightening, “I think I’ve got that. I mean, if we think they’re gonna end up getting all the parts together, I think I’ve got the skinny on a way to get around the whole ‘no weapon forged’ thing.”

The other Slayer whirled on him, appearing frayed of patience. “This better be good, Xander.”

“Oh,” he answered, now grinning. “It  _ is _ .”

***

Eventually Drusilla and Angelus did actually manage to smuggle all the pieces of their monster into town. Probably they got divers to find the chunk Spike had inadvertently dropped into the harbor—or, more likely, they just sent their minions in over and over again till they located it, since it wasn’t like vamps had to breathe. After all, it wasn’t a huge secret where it had come in, and the fact that Spike had been damn near dusted near there was all over town by the end of that night. 

In the end, though, Cordelia’s friend Xander also came through. And he did it just before Thanksgiving—which, give thanks much? Way before Buffy could come up with a really workable plan for going after Heinrich Nest and his stable of muscle-y minions. 

Xander’s plan? Steal an honest-to-god freaking  _ rocket _ - _ launcher _ from the nearby army base, to blow the stupid thing up. Buffy had asked the so-called ‘Scoobies’ if he was an army brat or something, “Like, is his dad in the military, or…”

But no. Apparently the guy had acquired his knowledge of military protocol and access codes or some damn thing sometime last month, when they had all become their Halloween costumes, or something. “It was this whole thing. It’s a long story,” Cordelia told her, blowing it off with a wave as they huddled behind the mezzanine wall in the mall and waited for the giant blue demon-monster to appear and start sucking out everyone’s souls or whatevs.

/Okay, so glad I missed that little detour into bizarro-world./ Anyway, when it came to the whole ‘no weapon forged’ codicil, both Buffy and Cordelia and most of the in-the-know crew were pretty convinced—or at least hoping really hard—that it was gonna be a case of ‘Humpty Dumpty, what?’

Time to find out, of course. While Buffy cleared all the humans out of the way and ensured there would be no casualties behind them, Cordelia took careful aim from behind the partial cover of the empty refreshments booth. Spike, meanwhile, completed his requisite sneaking around to one side to get his ex out of the way, so she wouldn’t end up dusting during the festivities. Under Buffy’s anxious scanning, he made his reappearance on the far side of the wide atrium, creeping closer to Dru where she stood on the nearer side of the Judge, across from a gloating Angelus. 

Dru, for the record, looked troubled, maybe? Tough to tell, from this distance, but Buffy thought maybe her excitement might be turning to concern for her creation. Probably her visions were telling her everything was about to go to pot. /Get her out of there and  _ move _ , Spike!/ Buffy thought hard in his direction, and wondered if he could feel it when she tugged at him mentally. Damn him. His idiotic insistence had led to the hell of a fight, earlier. But being as the whole damn reason they’d come to this stupid town had been to fetch his insane sire back to LA, it wasn’t like she could’ve told him his nutso side-plan was out of the question.  _ “Just be safe, and come back to me,”  _ she’d insisted, staring into his eyes and holding tight to the edge of one hand. 

_ “Promise you, pet,” _ he’d answered, and darted away, a man with a purpose, before Cordelia had even finished unwrapping her giant, crated present.

Finished herding staring bystanders back, away from the blast-zone, Buffy raised her crossbow. “Ready,” she reported in crisp tones; though honestly? Not so much with the ready. /Damn, dammit,  _ move _ , Spike!/ 

He was right there, just hanging around having an apparent  _ debate _ with Drusilla? /If she’s not gonna leave then you gotta  _ go! Ohmygod! _ /

Buffy found herself chanting at her vampire as, still ducked, he grabbed at his sire and attempted to literally  _ drag _ her away from the scene of the crime. As if that was gonna work, when, as his sire, and now back at full strength, there was no way he was going to be able to overpower her. Not if she wasn’t willing. “Get out of there, get out of there, hurry it up,  _ c’mon _ , Spike…” 

Up there on the far side of the central court’s wide opening, the giant blue monster had beams shooting out of his eyes now; blazing down to locking onto every human target. It was showtime. “Buffy!” Cordelia hissed.

“Dammit!” Buffy answered, and holding her breath, pulled her trigger.

Her bolt hit the Judge square in the chest, briefly distracting the thing from its gleaning efforts. It also, hopefully, warned Spike that it was time to get the hell out of there. 

Except the stupid idiot didn’t even move, still fighting with his—/I'm sorry, Spike, but currently acting like a nutbag/—sire about the ethics of remaining in place or whatever. /Holy crap, Spike, get  _ out _ of there!/ her brain shrieked helplessly. 

The Judge was only discombobulated for a brief moment. Yes, the sucking bolts of death receded, but still, the dazed humans, of course, were too messed up to run, which meant this was going to have to happen. /Shitshitshitdamn…/

The Judge slowly pulled the bolt from his chest. “Who  _ dares?” _ he demanded, his voice echoing across the open space. His weird eyes penetrated their hidey-hole in the drinks stand and narrowed. 

“Gonna have to shoot, Buffy,” Cordelia warned, and braced herself, and holy mother of boom, that thing was huge!

“Oh, man,” Xander muttered, and, flipping open some kind of toggle-thing on top of the bazooka, he ducked and plugged his ears. The rest of the Scoobies flinched away and followed suit.

Spike finally began to move, with a last swift, muttered complaint to his ex; probably something about it being her funeral, as he darted away, and damn, damn... It was gonna be too close, he was going to get dusted, Buffy was already starting his way, she couldn’t…

The blue thing began to chuckle, resonant and mocking. “You’re a fool. No weapon forged can stop me…”

“We’ve stepped up our forging game since you last checked in,” Cordelia answered, and pulled her trigger.

Belatedly, Angelus and Dru seemed to realize what was coming down, because they both dove over the railing, heading for relative safety a whole story down. Which they so didn't make by the time the rocket hit. 

Spike was still only about fifteen feet away himself, the complete freaking moron, doing some kind of tuck-and-roll as the massive explosion ripped into the Judge. For a sec, it looked like the fireball had also engulfed him.

The scream that exploded out of Buffy’s throat was automatic, instinctive, impelled by a force greater than anything a bazooka could inspire. She pelted around the wide arc of the mezzanine, coughing over the familiar feeling of choking smoke, stumbling over and dodging falling pieces of Judge, unable to see through the billows. The smell of cordite and burning wood and melting paint and plastic filled the air. So did screams, coming from everywhere. Some of them, she thought, were coming from her. 

She kept her eyes fixed on where she had last seen Spike, and prayed harder than she had ever prayed in her life that she wouldn’t find a pile of… 

/NO!/

She stumbled over another something. Thought it was a chunk of Judge, made to go around it. That was, until it grabbed her ankle. 

Only her quick Slayer reflexes kept her from tripping full-length onto the tile. She slithered to a halt and fell to her knees, yanking something that looked like a fragment of heavy, wide, slightly-curved and painted wooden railing off of the body before her, blinked the tears out of her burning, smoke-smeared eyes. There was a black duster, a slight hint of red collar. And then Spike rolled over, his pale face streaked with soot, his hair a curling mess, his shirt in tatters. “Hey, Buffy,” he croaked, trying to sound jaunty.

She couldn’t help it. She slapped him. Hard, on the chest; once, twice. Five, maybe seven times, couldn’t stop, and she was crying, and yelling at him, telling him he was an asshole, thanking him for still being here with her, screaming at him for scaring her like that. And then he was laughing and pulling her in against his chest, and petting her hair, and telling her he was sorry, but he was glad she cared so much; and god, oh god, he was alright, he was safe, he was still here, he wasn’t dust, he hadn’t burnt up… “If… you… ever…” she sobbed into his coat, “…do that… to me again, I’ll…”

“I get it, pet,” he answered soberly, and stroked her, and held her, and it was going to be alright. Unless she killed him herself, the insane idiot. 

“Oh my God I  _ hate _ you!” she exclaimed, and now she was laughing, because he was ridiculous, this whole thing was ridiculous, what  _ even? _

“Well,” he answered, leaning back on his elbows, and regarded her with a broad smile on his smudged face as he stroked the disarrayed hair away from her tear-stained cheeks with awed fingertips, and looked warmly into her eyes. “Guess that means you really must love me, if you’re brassed enough to want to kill me for being a fucking idiot, yeah?”

She stilled at that, considering it. “Maybe,” she allowed after a moment. “I’ll decide after I get over thinking you’re the stupidest guy I’ve ever met. Ohmygod.” And crossing her arms, she tried to look away and play hard to get for as long as she could. Which was about five seconds, the way he was chuckling and grinning and petting her. 

Giving in, because the hell with it, she lay back on his chest and let him stroke her, and closed her eyes, and was just glad nothing worse had happened.

What even was this town, though?

* * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  
*EVEG*EVEG*EVEG*  
movement! We have MOVEMENT, people!  
  
(Many thanks as always to wolf_shadoe for being the bestest and reading these as fast as I can crank 'em out!)  



	17. Our Rules.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So incredibly sorry this is late. RL jumped all over my case this week.   
> Well, anyway, POOH. Let's just jump right in, shall we, and make up for lost time? See how things progress with our dumbass children now that they've figured out they have *gasp* MUTUAL FEELINGS and stuff...
> 
> Ya ever wanna just slap characters upside their heads?   
> I'm feeling salty tonight. Mostly it's over other iterations of these idiots, but still.
> 
> (Also I have no earthly clue how this chapter got so freaking long. Honestly I could've tried to split it in half, but I kinda think it would've killed the entire point of it, so whatever. Lemme know if anyone's surprised by who ended up being the baddie in this chap. I tried to throw a tiny bit of a curve.)

** Sec.17C: Our Rules. **

They had to throw Mom a bone while they had the chance, since obviously none of this looked like it was going to clear itself up anytime soon. Granted, going back was a risk, since she might insist that Buffy stay; but it was that or risk having Mom jaunt up to Sunnydale to drag her back, which would be embarrassing as heck, and probably end badly. Best to come back voluntarily; at least at first. 

It gave them more negotiating room. 

Unfortunately, in the end if Mom put her foot down, Buffy was going to have to leave either way. Which was going to hurt the rebuilding relationship factor, but there was really nothing much she could do about that, except hope that Mom would somehow see the reason she was putting down.

Mr. Giles had offered to come with and explain things, with the whole spiel about what Slayers were and all that. Buffy seriously considered it for all of five minutes, since it would be another adult talking to Mom grownup-to-grownup about the whole sitch, but in the end she settled for keeping him as a backup. “We’ll call you if she gets all weirded out and says I can’t come back,” Buffy informed the guy briskly. “For one thing, she doesn’t trust Watchers much, since the other guys came in and acted like they were gonna get me out of the hospital, and then just bailed and left me there.”

Mr. Giles winced at that, and looked pained. “I don’t suppose it would do me a great deal of good to explain that we aren’t all evil gits with no respect for the girls we assist?”

At this, Spike had removed his latest cigarette from his lips and lifted a brow at the Watcher. “You might, in fact, be the first, Rupert,” he’d informed him, and then promptly re-corked his mouth.

Mr. Giles made a face. “Well, to be fair, a goodly number of my compatriots are… a bit hidebound.”

Spike snorted derisively and turned to Buffy. “I reckon we’re off, then, luv?”

She lifted her eyes to his, aware just from the new, jittery feeling coming off of him in waves that he was a lot less certain about this whole thing than he was acting. “Are  _ you _ sure about this? I can still go down on my own on the bus, if you really think it’d be better for me to go alone…”

He shook his head immediately. “I’ll not let you face her down on your own, Buffy,” he told her, his eyes warm and sure on hers. “Aside from the fact that I intend to give you a ride back up here. And, after dealing with your mum, I’ll not have you folding yourself into one of those godforsaken buses with a load of random bloody strangers trying to chat you up…”

His attitude made her smile. Was that a hint of territoriality? “Don’t want me flirting with dude-on-bus, huh?” she prodded, entertained.

He narrowed his eyes at her till they turned into deadly little triangles, then exhaled hard in frustration. “You can flirt with whomever you bloody well please, you little minx. It’s only, if one of ‘em tries to take you up on it, and you have to twist his soddin’ arm off for pushin’ it too hard, and then the driver tosses you off the bus in the middle of bleedin’ nowhere, then I’d have to drive out in the middle of the soddin’ day to rescue you anyroad, so I might as well just drive you, innit?”

She found herself grinning broadly, delighted with the produce of his anxious mind. “That’s a heckuva scenario your brain’s built up for you.” It was actually kind of fun to tease him. 

He stared at her for a sec, then, with a grunt, lifted his boot to put out his half-smoked cigarette. “You could stop bein’ maddening any bloody time you choose, you know,” he accused without precisely looking at her

“I know.” This was turning out to be way too much fun, now that she knew he was into her. It made her feel weirdly confident. Like… if a guy like him liked her, that was… Well, that was kinda big, right? She turned to leave, aware he’d fall into step behind her without needing to look. “I hope you know that by coming down, you’ll be volunteering yourself to eat at least a little of a whole lot of very American holiday food,” she threw over her shoulder as she waved goodbye to the other kids and headed for the library’s big double doors. “See you guys when we get back!”

“See you, Buffy,” Cordy called after her. “Try not to get grounded too hard. See? This is why I’m glad I’m not out to my parents,” she finished in an aside to her team. “Though, to be fair, if they ever decide to throw me in the looneybin, Giles, I expect you to talk ‘em out of it.”

“Seriously,” Willow filled in.

“Yeah. Talk about a crimp on the weekend,” the other kid, Oz, agreed.

“I still can’t get over that she’s, like, taking him home to have Thanksgiving with her mom,” Xander’s voice trailed her as she exited the room into the school’s broad halls. “Not that my family dinners are so great…” 

Buffy turned around to walk backward for a while through the denuded halls, eyeing Spike as they headed for the shaded side exit. He still looked startled at the idea of eating Thanksgiving food. “It won’t be so bad. There’s blood in the gravy,” she added blithely.

He narrowed his eyes again, looking put out. “Cooked blood doesn’t soddin’ count, Slayer.” Shaking his head, he pursed his lips at her in what she knew was his ‘trying to look evil and dangerous’ look. Mostly it just made him look hot, since it did a lot to advertise his cheekbones and that one sexy scar on his eyebrow. Then, out of nowhere, his face smoothed to an expression of worry. “D’ya think she’ll toss me right out when I show up with you on the doorstep?”

Buffy recognized this as ‘the real Spike’, emerging now that they were out of the roomful of witnesses. She shifted gears accordingly. “It’s a holiday meal, to which you were invited a long time ago. Mom could no more throw you out of a holiday meal than she could kill someone. She’s too polite for that.” She paused, considering it. “She might cut you to ribbons with her words, but she won’t throw you out.”

“Sounds real soddin’ pleasant,” Spike allowed, pacing her to the doors. “Hell, maybe I should fortify myself before we get there. Run by the liquor store…”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “We’ll get you some blood.  _ And _ some whiskey or whatever. Just don’t let Mom know you’re showing up half-soused, or she will kick you out. She’s not a fan of drunk, unless it’s all companionable and there’s wine involved.” She paused, considering it. “Or maybe, like, martinis, though that was more Dad’s thing. Anyway, I think she thinks that’s more civilized or something.” 

Spike made a sarcastic noise. “That tosser shows up to this shindig and he’ll end up shaken  _ and _ stirred.”

Buffy giggled a little, catching the reference. Her mother, after all, was a big fan of James Bond. “He won’t. He’s terrified of you.” She sobered, then. “I bet he never wants to see me again either, after…”

His hand closed around her upper arm, halting her in her tracks. “I’m sorry about it, Buffy.” And his eyes were serious and intent on hers in the low light of the echoing, holiday-empty halls. 

The occasional emergency fluorescent caught on them at the junctions, making his skin look weird and way too washed out… but his eyes seemed to glow in a particularly vivid way in that spectrum, which arrested her as she watched, to the point she almost forgot to answer.

“Pet?”

/Oh./ She tried to shrug it off. “It’s not your fault. He’s scared of me too. So, you know. Eh.”

Without another word, she was pulled into his arms. 

She let herself be enveloped, held on tight for a moment. “I’ll live, Spike,” she informed him after a moment, speaking into his shirt-collars. “I promise. I mean, yeah, it sucks, but… He’s been acting kinda distant for the last coupla years.” She pulled back a little to catch his eye, shrugged again. “I think he’s not sure what to do with having a little girl who’s not so little anymore. Ice capades and whatever, but a teenager? I think it freaks him out.” She felt the frown touch her mouth, then, and didn’t try to shake it off. Not in front of Spike. He knew her. “Which might have something to do with the fact that he likes dating girls who are barely older than me, I guess. If it freaked him out to suddenly see me as, you know, a young woman? Old enough to start dating? Then I can maybe guess why he suddenly got uncomfortable when he realized that he was hitting on women only a few years older than his kid suddenly was. It probably stepped on his game.”

Spike’s response was stereotypically ungentle; a burst of offended air over her crown. “Tosser.”

“Yeah, well.”

Silence fell between them. Spike ended it by turning her and sliding an arm over her shoulder to guide her outside. “Leave it for now, love. Get in and lay your head back. Rest, dream, let me drive. We’ll get to your mum’s place, and we’ll go from there.”

She found herself nodding wearily, and let herself be led. She no longer even remarked on the way Spike walked without fear into indirect light in daytime. They were on the shaded western side of the building as he squired her to the passenger side of the DeSoto. “Okay,” she answered easily, and ducked into the car.

***

“Well, that went well,” Spike muttered as he slammed his door and settled himself back into the car, hard enough to rock the whole bloody vehicle. 

“It could have been worse,” Buffy essayed tentatively from her side.

“Yeah?” he demanded, locking his gaze challengingly on her.  _ “How, _ then?”

She hesitated, then shrugged a bit. “Alright, it was bad. Happy?”

A laugh was rising in him; probably a bit of a mad one, considering. /What the bloody fuck was I thinking, anyway? That she’d welcome me as a suitor?/ The laugh bubbled out in spite of him, and he found himself with his head back against the seat, hands gripping the wheel and cackling like a bloody madman for a moment, staring sightlessly at the lining of the bonnet over his head. “Oh, Christ. No, of course I’m not, Buffy. I hate that she’s so soddin’ angry with you. I hate all of this.” He turned his head to one side then, to regard her a little sadly. “Least the Watcher came through, though, innit?”

“Yeah,” she answered wonderingly. Her eyes on him spelled not a little concern; as if she were watching him for further unexpected outbursts. “He did, didn’t he?” 

The Watcher had, quite honestly, done a bit more than that. He’d ended in allaying not a few of Joyce’s fears; even some the woman probably hadn’t had the ability to formulate into words. But then, that was one of those blokes’ jobs, wasn’t it? To talk girls away from their families? It was in the soddin’ CV, and Rupert had done his part swimmingly.

The whole thing had started off edgy enough, of course, with Buffy’s insistence that Spike stay for the meal. “You invited him, remember, Mom?”

“Oh. Yes, I did, didn’t I? Sorry. Won’t you come in, Spike.” The words had sounded bitten off. He’d followed Buffy in, past the woman who didn’t at all want him there. The tension had rolled off of her in waves to beat at him. 

Things hadn’t gotten any better as they’d continued into the whole business of breaking bread. “Do you, ah, want a drink, Spike?” Joyce had asked, reaching up for a wine glass. 

“Appreciate it, Joyce,” Spike had answered, seeking in the back of his brain for some strains of past manners from his other life and striving for civility. “I’ll take a tot, I suppose.”

Buffy, though, had unintentionally ruined it. “It’s no whiskey, but it’ll do?” she’d prompted, teasingly.

Joyce had shot her a stunned look, then him a cold one, as if to demand what was he doing, getting soused in front of her daughter on a regular basis. Belatedly reading the signals between them, Buffy had scurried to heal the breach. “Vampires can’t get drunk, Mom. Or, at least, not unless they drink, like, half a store, or…”

“Takes some doing,” Spike had agreed easily, and made to turn the conversation aside. Whether he’d been smashed in front of her child or no was likely not the reason behind the woman’s irritation at the moment anyway. “Need help carrying anything, Joyce?”

She’d ignored him for a bit instead, rather effectively freezing him out. Buffy, correctly reading the currents yet again, had begun to look uncomfortable. “So,” she’d striven to fill the silences as she’d helped her mother to serve up, “thanks for cooking so much before we even got here, Mom.”

Her mother had acknowledged this sally with a faint smile and a nod. “I tried to get your favorites in, Buffy.” Her eyes had flicked to Spike, if only briefly. “It’ll be a lot, I guess, since I hear our guest won’t eat much, but…” A half-shrug. “It’s Thanksgiving. And we have a lot to be thankful for.”

Hell. It wasn’t as if he’d chosen his diet, for chrissake! “We certainly do,” Spike had put in, gamely insisting on his own inclusion. “I’m sure it’s lovely, Joyce, and that I’ll enjoy it more than I enjoy most food.”

She’d nodded into the bowl she was setting onto the tabletop, though she’d not deigned to reply, and Christ, was he going to be treated like a pariah for all of time, whether he’d shagged her daughter or no? /If this is the way it’s gonna be, might as well do the crime, if I’m gonna do the bloody time!/ 

The meal had been spent with him and Buffy’s mum acting like strange, cornered cats circling round one another prior to the decision as to whether to fight. All the while, Buffy gamely fought to keep the conversation moving, as if she found the tension impossible. Which, no doubt from her standpoint it was an awful imposition. 

Poor chit had hoped to keep that sort of thing to a minimum, having jettisoned the prat that was her father. Too bad she’d had to bring the drag that was him to the party.

As to dinner conversation… that had been a hell of a thing. “So, Buffy; tell me what exactly you’ve been up to up in Sunnydale, that’s been monopolizing so much of your time.”

Buffy, arrested in the act of lifting a spoonful of some sort of crumbled, savoury bread-and-water chestnuts concoction to her lips, hesitated, then shrugged and lowered it again. “Uh… Well, there was this guy called ‘The Judge’. He was from the, like, 1300s or something, right Spike?”

“Thereabouts, yeah.”

“Anyway, he was a demon-monster who liked to suck out human souls or something. He was so dangerous that back in the day they dismembered him and hid his pieces all over the place. ‘In every corner of the earth’, yadda. But Angelus and Dru tried to reassemble him to use him as a weapon; I think to keep Cordelia and me busy or something. We tried to drop one of the pieces in the harbor so they could never put him completely back together… but someone shot Spike with a poisoned crossbow bolt before that could happen…” 

“I beg your pardon!”

Spike allowed a faint shadow of a smile to touch his lips and nodded across the table at her from where he sat opposite Buffy. The Slayer’s troubled expression was expected. Her mother, though, had been hit broadside by the concept that someone could be struck by a poisoned arrow and then sit calmly across from her days later and eat a holiday meal in her home. “Hurt a bit, that,” he put in blandly.

“Oh my God.”

“Yeah,” Buffy put in. “It was touch and go for a while, but we got him out of the woods.” Her eyes remained on her plate for that bit of exposition. “Unfortunately, because of that, Angelus and Dru found the piece we were gonna hide, and put the Judge together…”

Spike noticed she was skipping right over the bit where she’d bonded him. For which decision he thanked her, considering the audience; at least for the moment. Things were bloody well tense enough.   


“Anyway, it was said that no weapon forged could destroy him, so we were pretty freaked for a while…”

In spite of herself, her mother appeared to be fascinated. “How… did you stop it, then? This… Judge?”

“Well, we kinda blew him up.”

This threw the woman utterly for a loop. “Blew… With what?”

“Well…” Buffy hesitated. “Uh, a bazooka.”

It had all gone downhill from there. “Buffy, I want you  _ home _ . I don’t want any more excuses, any more stories about what you need to do up there; any of it. You are my  _ sixteen _ -year-old daughter and you belong at home with me, not gallivanting around up in Sunnydale fighting monsters with a vampire… No offense, Spike…”   


“None taken…”

“Using heavy artillery you got from  _ God _ knows where…”

Buffy could be seen poking at what was meant to be canned cranberries and looking amused. “It’s a seriously long story…”

“I see you smiling.  _ Don’t _ laugh at me, young lady! I don’t see that this is a laughing matter! Do you think this is funny? You’re up there doing… Doing  _ God _ knows what with some other girl, and all these… All these  _ vampires _ …”

Her eyes rose to meet her mother’s. “Well, technically there is a Watcher involved who’s supposed to try to keep us alive and under the radar…”

Joyce was in no way mollified by this inclusion. “Buffy, you’re to stay here. You’re to drop all this this instant, say goodbye to Spike, and…”

Buffy’s amused demeanor, which till that moment had taken all her mother’s diatribe philosophically, went abruptly flat and hostile. “Don’t.  _ Do _ that, Mom,” she interrupted, exceedingly quietly.

/Oh, Christ./

“Don’t do  _ what? _ You expect me to  _ allow _ you to just hare off again and do whatever you want? NO! Not this time, young lady! You’re not leaving again. You’re going to let Spike drive away and you’re going to stay right here…”

Spike felt a curl of foreboding in his chest as Buffy cut her mother off once more, her expression tight and voice brisk. “I’m going to ask you one more time. Don’t ever trap me, Mom. Don’t ever put me in a cage, even for my own good.”

Joyce was gaping now. “I’m your mother, and I’ll damn well…”

Buffy rode right over her; but in that quietly intense way that people did sometimes that undercut every other bloody thing. “It’ll make me feel like I have to run as hard as I can in the opposite direction. After that place,” she continued, low and flat and inflectionless, “I just. Can’t.” Out of nowhere her voice had gone distant. All of her went so distant that it sent a chill down Spike’s spine. 

He was moving before he could think. Moving to round the table; to touch her. To cradle a hand, her forearm, in his two palms. To chafe them between his, eyes concerned on her faraway gaze. “I can’t…” she continued in a whisper, almost as if she couldn’t feel him at all, and now she was on her feet; like a rabbit ready to bolt. “I can’t be trapped.”

It seemed that something she had said seemed to percolate, finally, through her mother’s angry brain. “Oh, Buffy… I didn’t mean…”

She trailed off when Buffy didn’t respond. 

“Oh, bloody hell,” Spike muttered, and, falling to her abandoned seat, picked the chit up bodily to pull her in close, began to rock her. She nestled in instinctively, let him pet her hair, murmur sweet nothings to her as he tried his damnedest to pull her out of the dark place she had gone when the ultimatums came flooding in. “It’s alright, then, love. Just stick with ol’ Spike, yeah? You’re safe, Buffy, I promise you. No one’ll ever trap you again, I swear. I won’t let it happen. I’ll dust first. I’ve got you. I’m right here. I promise, you’re safe. You’re right. I’m here.” The litany went on for quite some time before Buffy shuddered back into her body; shook herself, retreated finally from the place she had gone. Forced herself back into the current place and time; whatever it was called when one found oneself capable of relinquishing that safe, remote space that came of being checked out of the current reality as was too bloody unsafe to inhabit for the nonce. 

“Hey, there,” he’d murmured to her, smiling, when she was there again, and leaned away to chuck her under the chin and catch her gaze. “You alright, pet?”

She was shaken, but she was present, and only cut her eyes away a little. Thank Christ she was only mildly ashamed about it. She oughtn’t to be, to his mind. She’d been under assault. No reason at all she shouldn’t check out of it for a bit, and save herself, all she’d been through in the last fucking debacle of a year. 

“Hey,” she’d answered finally, with a bitty, self-deprecating smile from one corner of her lips, and a tiny half-shrug as if to blow the whole thing off. “Sorry.”

“Hush,” he’d answered, and gave her back an awkward pat. “All better now, yeah?”

“Sure,” she’d agreed, hearty in her self-motivating optimism, and clambered as awkwardly off his lap to turn to her mother. She’d gotten herself a bit more together, by then, and refused to blush or apologize for having let him support her through the minor crisis. 

“Buffy,” her mother had whispered, looking aghast still at the way her daughter had come apart at the seams over a thoughtless ultimatum. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

Buffy had merely shaken her head, dismissing any further conversation on the matter. “There’s no point in debating it anyway, Mom. I’m a Slayer. Slayers fight monsters. It’s in the rulebook. If you don’t believe us, you can talk to this guy. He’s Cordelia’s Watcher, like Merrick was mine.” Delving into her pocket, she held out the number they’d brought with them in case of emergency. “He said he’d explain everything.” And, slapping the wrinkled sticky-note into her mother’s palm, she’d settled back against Spike’s knees, wordlessly seeking solace. “We’ll wait.”

Joyce’s eyes had landed on them for a moment, clearly not liking their body language, but just as clearly unwilling to say anything that might send her daughter back into some sort of tizzy. Spike watched with Buffy, his fingers laying lightly over her pulse-point, which she’d turned outward for him at the wrist so that he could find that reassuring linking-spot, and they waited as her mother phoned Rupert.

Their conversation—what he overheard of it—was no doubt enlightening from the poor beleaguered mother’s standpoint. It was also likely quite trying from the Watcher’s view. But then, it was part of his job description and that, so Spike had little sympathy. “So, you’re this Watcher-person, I take it? One of these men who are supposed to help girls like my daughter?”

‘Yes, well, in that we are trained from a very young age…’

“The same as the men who came in to see her when she was committed to the psych ward, and just left her there to rot?”

‘Ah, well, the thing of it is, I was not apprised of that matter, so I cannot say why they did not choose to remove your daughter from the hospital at that time…’

“Buffy says it’s because there’s another girl, up there in Sunnydale, who’s performing the tasks she once did, down here in LA.”

‘Yes, well, to an extent…’

“To me that indicates that my daughter should be free to do whatever she wants. That she should be free to stop doing this… This ‘slaying’. Which would be appropriate, since she’s missed almost an entire year of school, and needs to catch up, for one thing…”

‘Y… Yes, and while I certainly understand your concern, as a parent…’

“And do you also understand my concern that she’s up there,  _ miles _ away from either of her parents, gallivanting around some town I’ve never been to which is, according to her, filled with  _ demons _ , fighting against them with, she’s told me,  _ rocket-launchers _ …”

Watcher cleared his throat at this point, as if aware that he had entirely lost control of the conversation, and badly needed to get it back on track. ‘I must admit that this all looks very bad on the surface of it, madame, but I will at least assure you that in fact that specific incident was a stroke of genius on the part of our team, and very much raised the likelihood of humanity’s survival.’

“Humanity’s…”

‘In fact, the presence of two Slayers in this fight raises their mutual likelihood of survival in every context.’

/Isn’t that’s the damn truth./ 

‘Now, you must understand, Mrs. Summers—and please, hear me out before you interrupt again—to be a Slayer is not something that can be cast off like a winter wardrobe when the seasons change. Your daughter is not a normal girl, and she will never  _ be _ a normal girl. She will always feel driven to help others, to save lives, and to seek out and fight what you would call ‘monsters’; all the things which go bump in the night, and defy logical description. It is in her blood, her spiritual DNA. You can no more keep her from this destiny than you can alter her eye-colour. So you must in the end accept that what she is doing is her ultimate best to attempt to satisfy both her needs and nature, and to salve your motherly concerns while she is about it. And it will make it far easier for her to do so without it tearing her apart, if you were to accept what she is…’

Joyce had finally caught up enough to protest. “Now, you listen to me, Mr. Giles! My daughter is not some… Some supernatural policewoman! She’s a sixteen-year-old girl, who’s been caught up in some…”

It was Rupert’s turn to harden. ‘They are all someone’s sixteen-year-old daughter, ma’am. Or fifteen. Or fourteen, sometimes. Or seventeen. One never knows. And they all end in turning aside from what comprises their once-normal life in order to valiantly fulfill their higher Calling in this world. Now, do not take me wrong; it is a highly dangerous occupation. But what I am telling you is that what your daughter is doing, right now, in Sunnydale and in the company not only of another Slayer, for the first time in recorded history, but also with a dedicated team of research assistants, a Master vampire who is for some reason or another willing to help them, and myself—a Watcher with, if I may say so, not a little experience in the demon-world under my belt—is to take on an endeavor with the highest probability of success and with the lowest probability of negative outcome that any Slayer may have enjoyed in history. And that despite the cageyness of their opposition.’

Buffy’s mum had halted in her planned harangue for a moment, frowning as she’d worked through that. “So, what you’re saying is, if Buffy came back here to LA, she wouldn’t stop this… This ‘slaying’ nonsense…”

‘Highly unlikely, if not impossible. She’d go back to school, try to act normal for your benefit and her own… and at the first sign of trouble, she would fall right back to slaying in order to protect others. For one, there is no escaping the Calling. Los Angeles is a mecca for the demon underground.’

“Wh…” the woman had sputtered, sounding horrified, and swung on them, her expression demanding confirmation.

They had both nodded solemnly in indication that the Watcher wasn’t in any way prevaricating about that bit. She’d turned back to the call, pale now and stupefied at the very thought. “So you’re saying that she’s actually safer up there, with you people, because since she’s not going to stop anyway, at least there she has… Has  _ backup?” _

‘Well… Essentially, yes.”

This dithering but immediate answer had set the woman back on her heels. “That’s preposterous.”

‘I’m not telling you this because I covet your daughter in any way, Mrs. Summers, but to let you know that there is good reason for her to return here. At least until she must re-enter school, in any case.’

“I just… You people are insane!”

‘I can, if it helps any, insist on a stipend for her, to cover her expenses, in the amount standard for Slayers. It would be my pleasure to argue with the Council on her behalf, and have those monies sent on to you in the interim, until she fulfills said contract in this town, since her time spent here could absolutely be considered time in service, rather than time spent as a sort of freelancing Slayer, as she will no doubt become once she departs.’

“Wh… You mean you’ll see to it she’s… paid? Like a… teen summer job? Won’t they have a hard time doing paperwork for… For…”

‘It’s nothing that would show up in your tax documents,’ the Watcher interrupted to negate her shocked words. ‘All taken care of through unofficial channels. As it’s been done for hundreds of years. Though, commonly said stipend would go to the girl’s Watcher. But since Buffy’s Watcher has rather unfortunately, ah, passed in the line of duty…’

“Snuffed it like a candle,” Spike had muttered under his breath, low enough that Buffy couldn’t overhear. She didn’t know how lucky she was that they’d overlooked sending another right on the tosser’s heels, to pick her up right where the other had let her off.

“I can’t  _ believe _ this,” Joyce was saying, sounding flummoxed.

‘Please do just consider it,’ the Watcher was telling her. ‘I will, if you send her back, give you regular updates as to her condition…’

Joyce’s mouth had set to a thin line. “Can you see to it that she’s put up in some sort of apartment, at least? Not in some fleabag motel?” Her eyes had flickered over to Spike, less filled with apology than with accusation, and oh, hell. “I’m still not agreeing to this, but I’m just saying that the fact that you let her stay there for this long in…” 

‘I, ah, confess I was not aware of her living situation until later stages of things, madame.’

“If I send her back, you’re going to fix that.”

‘Very well.’

“Alright. I’ll consider it. Good night.”

‘Have a pleasant evening, Mrs. Summers.’

They did, in the end go back. And, at first, everything was as it had been; at least until the Watcher went and found a one bedroom flat for Buffy that was available for subletting from some bird who was traveling or some bloody thing. Buffy was put up in it almost immediately… to her apparent, very great reluctance.

Actually, his Slayer seemed markedly disenchanted by the idea of leaving their snug motel room, and pitched such a fit about leaving him behind that he was rather touched. “I’ll do, pet. I’m only a few miles down the…”

“I won’t see you!”

/Bloody link, is what it is. Hell./ “Well, I suppose I can…” 

“This sucks.” She’d been in the hell of a snit, arms crossed and the rest, even as the Watcher and the other chit and her mates moved her in;  _ and _ , she insisted he stay after the rest left. Promptly they had, she dragged him down on the sofa, flipped on the telly, and set to snuggling up against him there, holding fast to his arm as if she fully intended to keep possession of it all night; till he almost thought he might have to saw it off to leave, once she’d fallen asleep against him in the wee hours. 

She didn’t raise hell about his extricating himself and darting back to the motel to get some kip, since she knew quite well he couldn’t do much about the situation. She did, however, turn the big, sorrowful headlamps on him when she saw him again, imploring about their having become a bisected unit and doing her bloody best to wrench his sodding heart out. And fuck if she didn’t then try to turn him into sodding Tantalus that night by coming back, just when he’d been about to switch to another, cheaper room with one bed, to climb into his with him when he was half out of it. Promptly she had curled into him, folding her fists tightly in his t-shirt collar, and settled into sleep with a little, satisfied sigh that held him motionless and watching her sleep with trusting abandon right against him for half the night and well into the morning, fuck him all to hell.

/And you’ll stand it, mate; tonight, and any night she decides to come back, won’t you. Bloody hell. ‘You who hath stolen of the divine nectar, the ambrosia of the Gods, for thine own, and have supped upon the flesh of thine own blood. And forasmuch as you have killed an innocent, you have indicted a God also. For in her pain, Demeter looked not, and still weeping in torment for lost Persephone, ate also of that which you hath exchanged them. So you shall be punished…’/

Low-hanging fruit never looked so innocent, he thought now as he stroked the air above her cheek, listened to her breaths; fruit he’d never reach out to touch, since he doubted this one would pull away did he try. And for a man dying of thirst, somehow it was shockingly easy to look upon these waters and smile, and wonder how his reflection might be changing in it.

Separate flats or no, with the way Buffy’s habits were running—since he rather doubted the others weren’t aware of them—Spike honestly expected Joyce to come flying up from the Valley at any given bloody moment to take his head off for him, whether he broke or no. Which would be the worst bloody timing on earth. Demeter was like to get herself turned into some sort of party favour, if she did, for whomever decided that the visiting Slayer was being too much of an annoyance at the moment. Of which, there seemed to be plenty, aside from Angelus and his minions. 

Someone had it out for them both. It wasn’t just him, it seemed, who had acquired detractors who wanted him dead. 

Some sod who could apparently both assemble himself from fucking larva or some sodding thing, and then disassemble himself as swiftly was following them about. The prat had the effrontery to get bits of himself caught up in Buffy’s hair, which had of course spelt the end of him. Buffy immediately and furiously tasked Spike with fetching a gallon cask of gasoline from the local gas and sip, which she then tossed at the blighter, and lit him on fire, maggots and all, employing a whole book of matches she’d gotten from same. 

It had been rather sodding magnificent to watch, to be honest. But that, of course, went without saying.

To celebrate, she’d insisted on going to some nearby skating rink, which she’d noted in passing while they’d been tooling through town looking for signs of these tossers. She’d gone on the whole way about how she’d wanted to be Dorothy Hamill when she was a wee chit, and how she’d idolized Kristi Yamaguchi and the lot, growing up, and hell. He could just imagine the bitty Buffy tottering about on miniscule ice skates. He’d found the idea enchanting enough in a sweet sort of way. 

Once he saw her going about on the ones she’d rented, now, looking bloody graceful as all hell and absolutely without a care, he knew he was lost. 

That was, till another sonofabitch had to interrupt her moment with an attempt on them both. A great fucking gorilla of a creature, as well. Though, they’d taken him easily enough, between them. 

Git had a ring on him, which, taken before the Watcher, had explained things well enough. “It seems you’ve thoroughly brassed someone off,” Rupert informed them somberly. “This ring indicates that someone’s set the Order of Taraka after you.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Spike exclaimed hearing it. “Well, isn’t that the utter fucking end! One guess who that was.” /Who knew the old git would land on these bastards, though?/

“Wait,” Buffy demanded, looking lost. “What’s the Order of Trak…”

Spike did a bit more groaning. “Order of Taraka, love. They’re a guild of supernatural assassins. And they’ve a reputation of never stopping till they’ve done the ones they’ve been sent to off, or till their employer’s called off the job.” He closed the Watcher’s book for him and turned away, feeling at a loss, and quite frankly a bit worried. “Brassed off the wrong family, between us, Buffy.” /Maybe time to get you the bloody hell out of this town, before being with me gets you dead./

/Fuck, wait till Joyce hears we’ve accidentally fucking lied to her./

The Watcher’s eyes had narrowed at him. “You think it’s the Master who’s ordered the hit against you both?”

Spike spun back round to meet his gaze bleakly. “We’re a complication. And two Slayers in a town he wants to rule? One gets him out of prison. Two’s a death-sentence.” He lifted one shoulder in a faint, dismissive shrug. “I’m collateral damage. Blood-traitor, helping the Slayers? Best to have me out of it as well.”

Buffy was staring at him, open-mouthed. “Wh…”

The other Slayer had remained uncharacteristically silent through most of this conversation, but now she rose to her feet. “So, Buffy,” she interrupted, “it sounds to me like you have two choices, here. Bail, or go on the offensive. What’s your plan? You know, so I can plan around you and your guy.”

Spike found himself amazed when his Slayer met the other’s gaze, steely and determined. “Oh, he’s going  _ down _ .”

“Hold the bloody hell up; what?” he demanded, shocked to his core. This was not at all the reaction he had expected. When one found out one had been made the target of endless floods of assassins, one usually wished to go to ground, wasn’t it? Not to go after the sod who’d sent them after you?

Buffy whirled to face him. “He’s the one who shot you, right? Or, like, he sent the guy who did…”

“Alright, but…” She was barmy, and going way too bloody fast. 

“So, I said whoever did it was toast.  _ Especially _ if it was him. And anyway, now he’s coming after me, too. You think I should just walk  _ away _ from that?”

/Christ on a stick./ “Buffy, Slayer, my love…” They were all staring at him now. He didn’t give two shits in a windstorm. “Heinrich Nest is  _ thousands _ of years old. I want you to know that I have all the bloody faith in the world in you. You took on a monster like Lothos on nothing but the wits God gave you, and you kicked his arse back to the twelfth fucking century. You’re a goddess. But do you know that the persona we call ‘Heinrich Nest’ is only the latest of dozens of names he’s called himself over the centuries? That his first name was actually Aurelius…”

The Watcher gave a jerk. Spike spared him a brief glare. “Yeah. Do you think the prat would follow a religion that didn’t revolve around him as the soddin’ central figurehead? And him the narcissist he is? Sonofabitch is as old as dirt. Far as I know, he’s descended direct from fucking Archaeus himself.” He barked a mirthless laugh. “‘S probably why he looks like he does. Never heard of that git deigning to wear a human face. Doubt he even has one.” Not that it even signified at the moment. 

He turned back to Buffy. “The old monster has been around since there’s been soddin’  _ agriculture _ . Maybe before. He’s as old as your entire bloody Slayer line; or at least nearly. To fight him, you’d have to be at the top of your game, and stronger than any Slayer since the first bloody one…”

The other chit moved up to stand at Buffy’s elbow. “Well, since right now there’re two of us, we probably have more of a chance than any other girl’s had since whenever.”

/Oh, hell. Now, they choose to pull out the Watcher’s reasoning?/ “Right, yeah, that’s likely true, but in order to…”

Buffy held up one hand, effectively cutting him off. “How would we do it, Spike? If we wanted to get in and out fast?”

/Oh, Christ./ “Buffy…”

Her gaze bored into his. “We have too many enemies in this town. We need to even the odds. And right now, none of us can move as long as we have these Taraka jerks pinning us down. You said they won’t stop till the guy who hired ‘em is dead, right?” She had gone all coldly determined. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I don’t plan to spend the rest of my life in hiding, so that means offing your great-grandpa and getting it over with so we can move on back to dealing with this Angelus sitch…”

/Bloody fuck./ She had a point. /Sod it./ “The hell of it is, love, he always has sodding dozens of minions about him. You have to get through them, and then you have to get through whatever that bloody bubble is that’s around him. Which I gather is only thin enough for you to go through—anyone as isn’t his blood and a vamp—during certain times of year…”

“We, ah, believe that a Slayer can get through it anytime,” Rupert interrupted. “From what we understand, all he needs to escape is to drink the blood of one...” 

“Oh Christ. And you want to just prance down there and risk that it might be one of you as sets the tosser free? Fuck, Buffy!”

Buffy didn’t even flinch. She merely caught his gaze, held it. “We need to do this,” she told him calmly. “We won’t make a mistake. But I’m done with people coming after me; and I’m for damn sure tired of them coming after you. You’re  _ mine; _ not his.”

/Hell./ He hadn’t foreseen this complication when he’d let her claim him. Not that he’d been thinking all that clearly when that business had gone down. 

He wished he wasn’t so internally pleased at how possessive she was about it.

***

Spike rose from the bed once Buffy headed back to her flat; moved to the loo, closed his eyes. Breathed in deep of her scent, which had seeped into his shirt, the flesh of his throat. He was steeped in her, as he tended to be of late, and yeah. Any other time, he’d have a nice wank to set himself straight before going into the business at hand; but he rather thought, considering what was to come, he ought to go in hot and ready to tear off heads. /Especially considering I’ll likely need all the distractions I can come across, going in against the founder of my entire soddin’ Lineage!/

He shuddered a little, back bowed, head hanging between stiff arms as he tried to shake off the feeling of almost innate revulsion the idea built in him. A sense of betrayal that rose from somewhere so incredibly deep that it seemed to originate from within his very blood.

No doubt it in fact did. 

Nothing for it, though, but to get on. She was right, after all. Best to just have it over. Too many enemies in the same bleedin’ burgh, and all that. And it wasn’t as if the world would miss the old sod. /He’s lived long enough, innit? Git. Aside from which, it isn’t as if you owe him any allegiance; personally, or at all, anymore. You’ve never sworn to him; not directly, anyroad. And Buffy owns you now, so that’s circumvented, yeah? You’re right. So just get on, m’lad, and have done with it./

Still, it took a bit of fast talking to get himself moving. And it wasn’t at all having been raised to the religion that had him feeling he was walking directly into blasphemy when he pulled on the coat and headed for the door to join them at the library. 

William the Bloody was a rebel, sure, but he was still a vampire. Going against one’s blood, one’s sires? That was the greatest crime one could ever commit. /And here I thought I was mad enough, sidin’ with Slayers; the killers of our kind. Hell; by the end of this I’ll either be famous throughout history as the most reckless vampire ever to tread the earth… or the world will just consider me mad as a soddin’ hatter, and I’ll go down in the books as a total loss for tryin’ to take down my progenitor next to a couple of Slayers, before bein’ ground under his boot./ 

There was more than one way to end up famous, it seemed like.

***

They were headed for the entrance to the Master’s hidey-hole when it happened. Buffy and Spike were walking along beside her. Buffy was trying to calm Spike down, since he was acting mega-jittery—whispering to him in a low voice and tugging at his hand, telling him to chill, stuff like that—when some woman drove right up in a battered-looking Jeep, jumped out, stalked up to them, and said, “Alright, young lady. I’ve had enough. You’re coming home this instant…”

Buffy was instantly spooked. “Mom, you need to go home right now. This isn’t the time…”

“Oh, no! It is very much the time! The motel manager says you’ve been staying nights there instead of at your apartment. You are  _ dead _ , young lady, do you hear me? And  _ you!” _ she exclaimed in a low, deadly voice, rounding on Spike. “You  _ swore _ to me! You told me…”

“Oh, jeez,” Cordy butted in, because this seriously  _ wasn’t _ the time. Clearly this was Buffy’s mother, which, okay, kind of a surprise she hadn’t shown sooner, but did it really have to be now, when they were about to throw down with about twenty vamps and then take a potshot at the big cheese? “Listen. Mrs. Summers, I’m betting? I can guess what you’re thinking, but Buffy’s not doing the dirty with Spike. I’d be able to tell, I promise. But she isn’t, because she’s like the most goody-two-shoes girl in the history of being a Slayer. I honestly don’t know how she handles the strain, with a guy like him around, who’s clearly madly in love with her and who, let’s face it, has cheekbones like  _ that; _ but she does, and he does, because he’s about one hundred percent her puppy. He’d probably lay down across train tracks for her, much less wait till she’s ready to do the nasty, so you can relax. She just spends a lot of time with him because he’s like her…” Hesitating, Cordelia snapped her fingers in search of the term, while Buffy was still blushing and the vamp, chuckling. “What do they call ‘em, when they bring kittens and dogs and whatever to the old folks’ home to calm down the people with Alzheimer’s? Emotional… support pets, or something?”

The vampire’s lips twitched. She ignored him. “Yeah. He’s her emotional support vampire or something, ever since she was in the looneybin. I bet she can’t even sleep without him around, like some kind of security blanket; which, I mean, who can blame her, after going through that? She probably wakes up with screaming nightmares.” Buffy flinched again at her blunt statements, but then, so did the woman. Which, good, since that was the point. From Cordelia’s perspective, any parent who’d let their kid get stuck in a place like that and leave her there needed a good knock or two. “In the meantime, I need her, because we’re about to go into a serious battle, so could you back off and maybe table this fight till we’re aboveground again? Because we were just about to head downstairs, and it’d be way better if we could do that without you sounding the alarm like this.”

The woman gaped at her, looking horrified. “Downstairs? Battle? Where are you…”

“Mom, she’s right, we need to…”

Before Buffy could finish joining in, Spike gave a roar and dove at the woman bearing her to the ground. Which, unexpected much? Mrs. Summers let out a shriek and began batting at him in horror. He ignored her. “Assassin!” he shouted at them. “Behind me, nine o’clock!”

Cordy and Buffy swung in that direction as one. Cordy marked the shooter at the same time as Buffy did, and they were both pelting after the… What did you call someone from the Order? Tarakkans? Anyway, Buffy threw her sword at the same time as Cordelia threw hers, like some kind of choreographed Slayer ballet, which was nice. 

Buffy’s took the bitch’s head off. Cordy’s went through her heart. All in all, a good start to the evening’s slaying. 

Panting, Buffy drew up near her after retrieving her sword, which had, of course, flashed through the now-dead assassin to stick in the wall of the building behind her. The bitch had been dressed like a cop, which had probably helped her to go around town unremarked. Ho. 

Cordy tugged her own sword out of the body, wiped it on the uniform. Buffy followed suit with hers, and they turned back without a word. They’d both seen the ring on the bitch’s finger. 

Spike was just getting to his knees when they arrived back at the scene of the crime. Cordelia held out a hand to pull him to his feet, all friendly-like, while Buffy went to her own knees to check on her mother. The latter appeared to have been saved any damage to anything but her pride, thanks to the vampire’s swift action, or excellent hearing, or his nose, or whatever had tipped him off. “Are you alright, Mom?”

“Buffy, did you just  _ kill _ somebody?” her mother demanded, horrified.

Buffy didn’t bother to dignify that with a response; just pulled the woman to her feet next to Spike, then met his eyes with hers; a swift, familiar scan. He nodded back once to let her know he was good. Then she was looking at her mother again. “Mom, I need you to get in your car and go to the school. Hang in the library with Mr. Giles.  _ Please _ ,” she insisted when the woman opened her mouth to debate the matter. “You’re in the way, here. You almost got shot by one of the Order of Taraka by staying too close to us. She was probably here waiting to ambush us at the mouth of the tunnels. You’re lucky Spike heard her cock her gun…”

Startled eyes fled to Spike, who tipped his head genially, if stiffly, in her direction. Her mouth opened in a stunned ‘o’ of gratitude. 

Buffy grabbed her still unmoving mother’s arm and turned her. “Mom. Go. I need you to go. We’ll be back as soon as we get done with this fight.”

“B… But Buffy, what are you…”

Buffy’s expression went implacable. “I need to kill a vampire. Cordy and Spike are gonna help me.”

Alright, that was a little excessive. /She needs to remember this is my hellmouth, and I was here first./ Though, maybe Cordy might just forgive her, in the heat of the moment, considering one of the Master’s hired goons had just come this close to killing her mother. /You get a pass… for now./

Spike helped her, in the end, to usher her mother back into her Jeep, and directed her back toward the school she’d been approaching when she’d spotted them hiking along Abracus toward the entrance to the Master’s sunken church. Once they’d sent the woman on her way and were back next to Cordy, Buffy turned steely eyes on them both. “Let’s go. I’m gonna  _ end _ him.”

Cordelia rolled her eyes and nodded. “Yeah, let’s get this show on the road. I have a nail appointment in the morning, and I want to get at least a little sleep before then.”

***

“I’m so over this, you know,” Buffy informed them all conversationally as they headed deeper into the (oddly silent and unpeopled by vampires) catacomb. “He’s going down. You can take a shot at me. You can start a fight. But no one goes after my mother or my boyfriend.” 

Spike stuttered briefly in his steps, before jogging a half-step and lengthening his stride to catch up. “Boyfriend, is it?”

Buffy ignored him, determined not to let her slip become something fatal. “This plan better work. Tell us again, Spike, how we should avoid getting hypnotized or whatever by this douche?”

Spike cleared his throat. “Thralled. It’s called thrall. Ah… You’ll want to avoid eye-contact. I’ll see to it if he catches either of you, that I break it, if I’m able…” He frowned. “Though it sounds as if you have a bit of a natural immunity, love, since Lothos couldn’t do it…”

Buffy made a face. “Yeah, but your ex put me under pretty easy,” she pointed out.

/Oh. Right. Yeah, she did. Which might have made you more susceptible. Or it might mean…/

Hell. Was the Slayer somehow more susceptible in general to members of his own family than to others? And if so, why the bloody hell would that be?

“Spike?”

Spike frowned as he thought it over. “I dunno, pet,” he answered, pensive now. “Guess we’ll just have to play it by ear. The old bastard is damn powerful.”

“Alright,” she accepted it with a philosophical shrug, and turned to face the first fork. “Meanwhile, am I the only one who’s kinda freaked that we haven’t run into any forward guards or anything yet?” 

Cordelia was frowning as she drew up even with Buffy’s shoulder. She’d just done a quick detour down one of the side-tunnels, seeking vamps and come up empty. “Right there with ya. It’s eerie.” She shot a quick glance over at Spike. “Feel anyone? Smell anyone?  _ Anything?” _

“No.” Spike’s tones were ominous, his uncertainty well-buried.

/Damn./ “They know we’re coming,” Buffy answered that uncertainty with her own conviction. It was the only thing that made sense. 

Spike’s expression hardened. “Yeah. Most like.”

Cordelia shot them an impatient look. “Oh, because they can’t just all be out hunting for snacks for big daddy, or something?”

“No,” Spike agreed, shoulders taut. “They knew that if the Order didn’t get us, Buffy wouldn’t take this lying down. That we’d be coming. Most likely, ol’ Batface has his entire regiment all set up round him like soddin’ chessmen. Ready to dust in defense of the king.” His eyes never stopped seeking down the path before them, though.

“Nice,” Buffy answered his worry, and twirled her sword in a show of unconcern. “One-stop shopping.”

“Don’t be so flip, luv,” Spike warned her, his tension unwavering. “They’re zealots, remember. Ready to give all for king and country. They’ll fight to the last… Well,” he amended. “Not breath, since they don’t necessarily need to breathe, but you get the drift.”

“Good thing there’s three of us, then,” Cordelia answered sharply. “Right?” Her voice was a little harsh, and left no wiggle-room, and her gaze lingered a little longer on Spike in clear challenge. Which Buffy got, considering the way the conversation had gone back at the library before they’d left. 

She had been more than a little embarrassed herself by the way Spike had tried to beg off mid-planning session—literally in front of everyone—while they’d been suiting up to head out earlier. He’d been jittering, acting more and more freaked by the second while the rest of the group kibitzed about possible defense strategies and backup plans, about what to do if they got grabbed, all that stuff. “Hell,” he’d finally broken in, his voice grating. “Why are we even doin’ this, love? We ought to just get the bloody hell out. We’re only here ‘cause of Dru, and it’s obvious she doesn’t wanna leave. Might as well be off. Go see to it your mother doesn’t send her own assassins after me, and then find a place to bury ourselves till this blows over. It’s one thing goin’ head-to-head with Angelus, but it’s madness goin’ after Nest.”

Buffy had stared at him in amazement. “Spike, he declared war on us. Hiding won’t accomplish anything. The only way for us to ever be safe again is to dust him.”

He’d seemed to explode. “Oh, Christ, Slayer, you don’t know what you’re saying! What you’re asking…”

She’d cut him off to stalk closer, her gaze sharp and voice lowered to something deadly she hadn’t known she’d possessed. “Look. I get there’s a lot I don’t know about vamp society, or whatever, but you said you were mine…”

“I am,” he’d whispered, gaze riveted on her. “But Buffy…” And his voice had sounded so incredibly pained that it had hurt to hear it. 

She couldn’t let up, though. Not now. She needed him. “Alright,” she’d answered, uncompromising. “That either trumps everything, or it doesn’t.” And she’d gone in for the kill. “So tell me now, Spike. Are you in or out? Because I’m going after your great-grandsire tonight.” And she’d caught his hand; a combination of demand and imploring. “I’d rather do it with my vampire by my side than alone.”

He’d closed his eyes, and she’d seen a fine tremor run through him, very visibly shaking him from heels to hands to the top of his head. “You know I need to make sure you’re alright.”

“I know.” She was probably tearing him to pieces right now. It was probably completely unfair, but she would do what she had to to survive.

The moment had hung on some kind of massive, invisible fulcrum… and then it broke. Spike had dropped his cigarette to litter the library’s cheaply tiled floor, eliciting a muffled protest from the Watcher, and he’d ground out heavily, “In for a penny.” Blue eyes had opened on hers; depthless and tormented, but decided. “S’pose it likely no longer matters, since I’m not bound to him anymore, anyway. I’m bound to you.”

“Huh?” He’d successfully managed to throw her for a loop. 

His quiet response, low enough that their audience might not even have caught it, threw her even harder. “You’ve my blood, innit?” And oh, the intensity of his gaze…

“What do you mean, I have your blood?” She’d been confused… but only for about half a second. There had been something in his expression; something nudging her toward understanding. And she’d recalled a conversation they had had a while back; in the car, on the way back from ‘shopping’ in LA, and… /Oh, wow./ “Like… you’re my  _ minion?”  _ she’d demanded, half-amazed and half-horrified.

“More or less.” 

He was so matter-of-fact about it. “Because of… Of the thing with the blood?”

He’d answered without words, merely tilting his head slightly in rueful acknowledgment. 

“Wow. Okay, weirder than I thought.” Though, it did explain why he had not been able to tell her yet what happened next or what it had all meant. No doubt he hadn’t even known a Slayer and vampire could… do that, much less how it would work. It was probably all kind of a work in progress, or some kind of huge, accidental experiment. 

/And, probably a much longer discussion for another time./ 

Nodding at him to show she understood, she dismissed the rest for the moment to turn to Cordelia. “That’s settled. You ready to go take this guy out? Might as well make it one less demon we have to fight.”

The other Slayer, who had by this point checked out of their personal issues long enough that she was inspecting her cuticles, nodded and straightened. “Sure, why not. Sounds fun.” She pivoted in turn to face her ‘Scoobies’, snapping as she did into her ‘command mode’. “Hold down the fort, and protect Ms. Calendar.”

“Uh, right,” Willow had answered, and shot a glance at the Watcher, who was still playing the awkward game with said teacher. 

They had started off away from the table without another word. “So, uh, we’ll just hang back here,” Xander had called after them. “Have fun storming the castle!” 

“For goodness sake, Xander.” 

Xander ignored the scolding to turn to Willow. “You think it’ll work?”

Willow had shaken her head soberly over crossed arms. “It would take a miracle.” 

Then, because they were both dorks, they had thrown their arms over one another’s shoulders and waved after them as they’d exited the double doors. “Bye bye!”

The dopey sendoff had had Spike snorting and in somewhat of a better mood than the dark humor that had seized him when they’d first entered the library. Unfortunately, now he was a jittery mess again. Buffy just hoped she could count on him to stick with the program. There was so much about this vampire stuff she didn’t know, or understand. So much under the surface…

/But he’s mine. That’s all that matters, right?/ “So, do you think this whole… having a blood-link to you thing might make me a little bit more immune, or whatever, when he tries to hypnotize me?”

Spike made a faint groaning noise, and cast his eyes toward the high, curving ceiling of the too-large sewer pipe (which, by the way, why the sewer? Seriously, no one had the right shoes for this). “Thrall, love. And bein’ as you’ve interrupted the blood-hierarchy a bit, for him, maybe.” A faint shrug as he returned to his perusal of the upcoming tunnel-fork. “One hopes at least it’ll provide yours truly with a bit of one, so that I might rise above and be about to keep you two free.”

Buffy frowned at this last. “You think they can still… you know. Command you? Even if…”

“Dunno, pet.” It was said in exceedingly bleak tones.

“Oh.” She bit her lip as it hit home how much he had to be calculating for that she hadn’t thought of.

“One of my greater worries, and you two depending on me down here.”

“Damn” Okay, so he hadn’t just been freaking because she’d been asking him to be a traitor or whatever. Like, she’d known he wasn’t a fan, and that vampire sociology was a little more complicated than she really knew about, but she kept forgetting about the biological stuff that seemed to always be a huge part of everything. “But you’re hoping that… That the whole bond-y… minion-y thing will… Will interfere with… that?”

“There’s always the chance.”

“Oh. Well… that’s good, right? A nice side-benefit, if it does?” She hesitated. “I mean, if you’re okay with that?”

His eyes darted to hers in the gloom. He looked surprised. “Of  _ course _ I’m bloody well okay with that, love. Don’t you think I’d rather be bound to you than be forced to obey the sadistic whims of a narcissistic old bastard like Nest? Hell,” he continued, and to her surprise, caught her hand,  _ lifted it to his lips… _ and kissed the back of it. It was such a courtly gesture, out of nowhere, that she faltered a step, staring at him wide-eyed in the dark. “Even if it means I can’t feel Dru anymore, the trade-off is…” He shook his head, apparently momentarily lost for words. When he picked up again, he sounded wondering. “With you in the loop, for the first time in my soddin’ life, I likely won’t have to do what Angelus asks of me, next time the prat comes to call. Just the thought that I might be able to stare him right in the great ugly mug and tell him to piss off is so bloody sweet I don’t even have the words.” 

The smile he turned on her then was so bright she forgot how to breathe for a sec. “Buffy, you’ll never know what it means to me to be freed of my so-called ‘family’.”

“Oh,” she answered, feeling uncertain of her ability to inhale. “I… Good, then, I guess.”

“Of course,” he went on, his smile now a sideways thing, cockeyed on his face and making him look rakish, “I’ll have to survive your mother when we get back topside. I mean, if we survive this fight, a’ course. She’s like to tear my dead heart out with her own soddin’ teeth when she hears what’s happened…”

“Oh,” Buffy heard herself reply, belatedly realizing that her mother didn’t know about this latest wrinkle, and that she was hardly likely to respond positively to developments. “Right. Um…”

Spike shrugged and turned back for the tunnels. “Problem for another day, pet. First we have to survive Nest. Then we’ll manage your Mum. One crisis at a bloody time, innit?”

“Can you two stop snuggling and get your butts in gear, please? We have vampires to dust, or don’t you remember?” Cordelia’s voice, drifting down the right-hand tunnel toward them, was sardonic and cutting. “Man, if I thought I was gonna be coming down here by myself, I’d’ve brought someone else to watch my back…”

Eventually the sewer tunnels petered out, to be replaced by broader, wide-open spaces with more natural-looking walls; some sort of rock formation, Buffy thought. They were browny-tan and bleeding moisture, and all of them seemed to cant just a little downhill, putting strain on the thighs at a steady rate and making her wonder just how deep underground they were by then. /A hundred feet? Two hundred? Three?/ 

They reached some sort of confluence of tunnels. Spike held up a hand, every muscle in him going taut, and nodded. His nostrils were flaring like anything. He gestured ahead of them, tugged out his borrowed sword, and advanced again, this time moving at a fluid semi-crouch. 

Buffy and Cordelia followed in his wake, and, as planned, halting on either side of the entrance to watch and see what his distraction might accomplish before entering at his back. They would possibly be detected by smell… but since their scents were all over him, it was also possible that the vamps in there would think they were smelling only the Slayer-scents on Spike when they caught the aromas drifting in from the doorway. 

Spike’s acting skills would hopefully give them the element of surprise. “Oi,” they heard him say as he paused in the doorway, then straightened and sauntered in at only partially-defensive. “Big welcoming committee for one bloke.”

_ “Spike,” _ a weird, slurred, thick voice answered. It had an odd lilt to it; one that made Buffy shiver involuntarily. “The prodigal son returns.”

Whoever that was, he was in vamp-face, or he wouldn’t be lisping like that. 

“I’ve a message from topside,” Spike began without preamble. “The ladies think you’ve stepped a little outside the lines, by calling outside help to settle your differences with them. They’re… unhappy.”

“Well,” the other voice answered, sounding as if its owner had made an unrepentant moue, “I have to admit, their happiness is not my highest priority. As for you, young man… I confess I am very disappointed in you. Such a promising vampire—youngest master in centuries—and you throw it all in to make yourself a Slayer’s lapdog?”

“The sex is amazing, is the thing,” Spike answered, and Buffy would have gasped at this weird, vampire version of locker-room talk, if she hadn’t seen Cordelia roll her eyes and actually stifle a laugh behind one wrist. “Seriously; have you ever shagged one? Oh, wait. You wouldn’t. Sorry; how have you been getting on since the other chit did Luke in? He was your favorite, wasn’t he?”

_ “Oooohhhh,” _ Cordelia mouthed, wide-eyed now and looking positively delighted by this schoolyard approach Spike was taking with his ultimate sire.  _ “Buuurn!” _ Her eyes were dancing and everything. 

Buffy wasn’t sure if she appreciated Spike’s tactics as much as Cordy was, but she got that he was trying to throw the audience for a loop, so that when his backup appeared, they’d all be focused on him. They would have to pick their moment well. 

Spike hadn’t let up, either. “Or, was it Angelus who did him? Never got the skinny on that. That’s the hell of a thing too. Why’re you lettin’ Peaches get such a foothold in your town? You act like I’m such a bleedin’ letdown, but he’s bein’ a serious threat to your power upstairs. Time was, an upstart like him would’ve been dust before a night went by, and now…” And he actually ‘tsk-tsked’. “People are gonna think you’re losin’ your touch, Granddad.”

The faint amusement had left the other vampire’s tones when he replied. “Yes, Angelus is quite the thorn in my foot these days… but at least he isn’t a disappointment. Ah, Spike. I am very sorry to have to do this, but I must, in fact, destroy the messenger. Do you think your Slayer will find it more disturbing to receive just a cupful of your dust as a warning, or that and some other part of you? An eyeball? Your prick? Bit of scalp…”

Buffy barely waited for Cordelia’s nod before she was out of hiding. Her first shot from the tiny, handheld crossbow unfortunately missed the creature standing by himself on the other side of the ripply thing… but it did go right through to the other side and dust some vamp standing there looking amazed to see them, so there was that. 

Then it was down to swordplay. With two Slayers working back-to-back, and Spike weaving all around and between them and their quarry, it took less than three minutes to dust all twenty or so vamps who had been stationed between them and the head of the Order of Aurelius. And, it was all accomplished with no eye-contact with said vampire. 

“Well,” that same lilting voice commented as they finished the job and set to patting themselves off, “that was invigorating to watch. I haven’t had so much excitement since, oh… probably the seventeenth century. But where are my manners? Welcome, Slayers, to my humble abode…”

The air was too close in here. After having methodically dusted so many vamps, Buffy was still gasping for breath. She knew Cordelia was too. After all, they had both inhaled not a little vamp-dust. /Ugh. How much of that can you really breathe before you need medical attention?/ 

“Sorry about earlier,” Cordelia was saying to Spike, between little gasps. “I won’t question your allegiance again.” 

As well she might apologize. Spike had faced down at least five of his relatives who had apparently been older than him. Every one had demanded that he stand down and join them, and he had dusted each one without pause. Most of the rest had been younger and had given him no trouble, but the older-vamp-hierarchy thing had been touch-and-go for a sec. 

So far, though, his bond with Buffy was holding. 

“No need,” Spike answered briskly. “I was bein’ a prat. You’d a right to be concerned.” His eyes roved over Cordelia’s head to meet Buffy’s certain gaze, caught, firmed. “Seems they’ve no hold over me, now.”

She found it in herself to answer, tried to put everything she was feeling into her voice. “Good.” /Man, I was asking too much. You must’ve been so scared that… That…/

She needed to be better about asking questions, next time, not just assuming that it was about… About what she thought it was, and not about what it  _ might _ be.

“So, what now?” the Master interrupted from within his spelled prison. “Do we have a nice fight? It would be quite the treat for me to face two of you…”

Man, he was nasty. He just  _ sounded _ ew. Hungry, but in a creepy way. 

Buffy caught Cordy’s eye again. “You wanna get rid of a waste of dust?”

“Love to.”

“Alright.”

Turning, they headed into the skin of magicks, Buffy with a last glance at Spike as they did so. His nod sustained her as they turned to face the monster who dwelt within the hellmouth.

***

“So then, what? You just… staked him and that’s it?” Xander demanded, staring at the bones laid out before them on the library floor.

“Yeah, well, you know,” Cordelia shrugged it off, “once Spike broke the whatsitcalled…” 

“The thrall,” Buffy’s vamp repeated patiently for about the tenth time, but okay, it was a weird word. Who could remember that? “Good bloody job he couldn’t do it to me anymore, what with…” And then, weirdly, he shut his mouth with a snap and looked kind of sheepish. 

Buffy threw him a  _ look _ , which, okay. Interesting. Cordy might even deign to poke into that, later, if it became a personnel issue. Not now, though. She was beat, and kind of on edge. “…Then, you know, we were standing on either side of him…” she continued, feeling unbelievably weary.

“I was in front, and Cordy was behind him,” Buffy put in from where she sat right next to Spike (practically in his lap, or at least as close as she could get without getting more dirty looks from her mom. Which, lucky for her, said mother was too freaked by their having returned with a whole-ass skeleton to be paying much attention right now. But dammit, Cordy was jealous anyway. Could those two be a little less show-offy about their status in front of the girl who didn’t have her vampire right now? It was kind of indecent and unfair).

“Yeah,” Cordy finished, turning away from them. “So we sort of came up from underwater, and realized where we were at the same time. Old skank-face got staked from the back and the front at the same time, and, poof. Up in smoke. Or, you know, dust.”

“Which is good, because he was nasty,” Buffy finished, sounding tired, and closed her eyes. She was basically leaning against Spike’s shoulder now. “I mean, what was with all that… That…”

“Innuendo?” the vampire supplied, sounding amused and kind of hyped. “Welcome to evil, pet.”

“Okay, but when you do it it’s fun. When he did it it just sounded… slimy.”

“Well… guess I’m not so evil anymore.”

“Duh.”

Spike leaned a little away from her to look down his nose at the top of her head. “Probably best not to offend me when you’re using me as a backrest, love. I might decide to drop you to prove my evil ways.”

“No, you won’t.” The claim was made in full, exhausted confidence that her vamp would stay right where he was. Which was fair, since Cordelia had never seen a vamp so whipped as that Spike guy.

Man, she missed Angel. “Alright. So, what’re we gonna do with these?” she demanded, brisk and no-nonsense. It was really hitting her. All of it. After so long—freaking  _ months _ of struggle—the Master, one of her ubiquitous enemies, was gone. Dead. Dust. That was  _ huge _ . 

But Angel— _ her _ Angel—was still her enemy. / _ Angel  _ is my _ enemy _ ./ He might even become more so, after this night, with the vampirical power vacuum they’d created. 

/Angel, why did you have to leave?/

She’d lost her biggest support, her greatest—possibly her only—emotional bulwark. She was so alone that sometimes it felt like something was broken inside of her. She couldn’t talk to anyone the way Buffy could to Spike. Consequently, she was kind of feeling ready to go home and have a nice, private cry, and she didn’t get to indulge in those kind of… well, indulgences, until business was taken care of.

“Well, I suppose we ought to ensure that he can never be revived with any spell…” Giles began, sounding a bit at a loss. “The Order of Aurelius is rather famous for doing that sort of…” He waved one hand wordlessly.

“What’s left of it, anyroad,” Spike put in, and nodded at the group without remotely moving the arm Buffy was leaning on. “Probably best if we smash the git, then maybe pour holy water on what’s left. Maybe even burn it; and either way, bury the bits in consecrated ground. Will keep any of the tossers who’re still kicking from digging up his unholy arse and trying to reanimate him.”

“Oh. Yes, well, I suppose that might…”

“That makes sense, actually,” Ms. Calendar interrupted, sounding fascinated. “I know a great spot right to one side of Shady Hill that’s still empty, under some trees, where no one would notice us…”

“Excellent. Well, best if we get on. I think there are some sledgehammers over in the groundskeeper’s shed…”

_ “Excuse _ me!” Buffy’s mother interrupted, sounding horrified, “but can someone tell me what the heck is going  _ on _ , here?” 

Facing one another across the wide space, everyone in the extended Scoobies started to giggle. 

“Oh,” Xander quipped, and reached out to gently pat her shoulder, “you really had to be there.”

“Just roll with it, Mrs. Summers,” Willow put in. “Eventually you’ll get numb.”

And they all cracked up laughing again. 

It had been kind of a long day.

* * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Vampire politics vs claimyness... vs MOMS. Which... We'll get to THAT in more depth in the next chapter.  
  
We're setting up badguys and knockin' 'em down like ninepins in this thang, yo. Let's see if we can keep the momentum up!  
  
(The quote about Tantalus is from my own friends' ongoing podcasted episodes of Greek-mythology-meets-modern-day-roadshow (you kinda had to be there). Obviously the quotes from _The Princess Bride_ stand on their own merits, since there is a _Princess Bride_ quote for literally every occasion known to man.)


	18. Uncompromising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, so sorry this is late again!!! Also, had to split another one, which... sucks, because the really, really fun bits are in the one after this. But, ah, well. Anticipation makes the heart grow... bulgier, or something. 
> 
> Also, please; everyone who crosses paths with wolf_shadoe, treat her like the hero she is, because I literally got this to her HOURS ago, and it JUST got done, so, like... BESTEST BETA EVAR.

**Sec.18c: Uncompromising**

They had nearly gotten away with Joyce, to put her up with Buffy in her flat; had nearly escaped the party and all without it coming up in front of the woman, when the fateful words fell out of the soddin’ Watcher’s smug, wondering gob. “I’d been meaning to ask… Spike, if you will; how on Earth did you escape being put under when the Master of your Line attempted to thrall you?”

/Well, bloody fuck./ “Ah, that’s a bit of an involved question, Rupert,” he’d begun, hoping like hell they could get away with not answering that, at least to-night.

But of course Buffy was as sodding straightforward and frank as ever, and squared her shoulders to turn and face the man before he could counsel her against it. And in front of her mother and god and soddin’ everybody, said, “It’s because he’s bonded to me, now. Though, apparently it didn’t help _me_ at all. No such luck, huh?” And she shot him a wry look; one which he returned with, no doubt, one of utmost horror.

The chit was exhausted. Whyinell she’d decided to open this bloody can of worms at two o’clock in the bleedin’ morning, when they could’ve dealt with it instead, say, fucking tomorrow at the earliest, was beyond him.

Of course, the Watcher understood immediately, and set aside the glass of water he was holding as if his fingers had gone nerveless. No doubt if he didn’t place it on the counter, it would have dropped from his grasp. “You _didn’t,_ ” he breathed, sounding horror-struck. 

“Wait, what did you do?” the other chit demanded, rousing from her equal exhaustion to ask, and looking badly interested. 

“Yeah, what did she do?” the boy perked up to ask, his head popping up like a ruddy jack-in-the-box from where he’d been lying half-asleep in a seated position at the table over across the way. Beside him the other lad with the short, reddish hair, said nothing, as was his wont when things were not his business. Spike rather liked that one. The cute teacher bird and the other young chit with the affinity for magicks stared at them, though, mouths open. And Joyce, of course, opened her mouth preparatory to making further demands, because she smelled a rat. 

Buffy, being the courageous wee chit that she was, didn’t bother to prevaricate. “Yeah, I did. It was kind of an accident—it happened when he was poisoned, you know?—but it did and it’s done, okay, Giles? So deal. He’s mine. Anyway, we should probably move on, since it’s not like we can change it...”

Rupert lifted one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, then very slowly removed his specs to set them aside on the counter, and groaned so loudly that one might think his heart had been surgically removed and tossed aside somewhere. “Oh, bloody hell.”

/Already, a resounding chorus of appreciation/ Spike thought wryly.

“Will somebody please tell me what’s going on?” Joyce broke in, sounding deeply offended at being left out of the loop, and swiftly escalating toward angry. 

Buffy squared her shoulders and turned to her mother, clearly ready to leap directly into the lion’s mouth. “So, there’s this vampire thing, Mom,” she began. “This thing where, when it’s two vampires, there’s always one who’s at the top of the heap. Sort of a hierarchy thing…”

“Oh, dear Lord,” Rupert muttered, closed his eyes, and began rocking a bit. “I’ll surely be turfed out, for this one…”

Exasperation drove Spike to cutting words. “Oh, shut it, you ponce. It wasn’t your lookout. And anyroad, you’re not helping in the slightest, right now.”

Buffy wasn’t about to let the prat still her, though. She was that courageous, and just got on with it. “Basically, when it’s a sire and a childe, one’s the…” Predictably, she faltered, because she took issue with the word, when it came to him. And hell if he didn’t love her for it.

“You can say ‘minion’, pet. It is the proper term, after all.” Best to try to keep it all easy; or at least to pretend it.

Buffy made a face. “Okay, but it just sounds so tacky.” Glancing away from him, she sighed. “One’s the minion of the other one. But since Spike’s kind of been… Well, sort of disowned by Drusilla, when I sucked the poison out of him and told him he better not dare to leave me, he sort of agreed by giving himself up to me as my…” She blushed a bit—deliciously, damnitall—and gave a bitty shrug. “Well, sort of my…”

Spike decided it was time to step in a bit more firmly. “Her personal property, more or less. Which means,” he finished, turning to Joyce and manfully preparing to have his head sliced off for him, “that whatever she needs of me, ever, I’ll be the bloke to do it. I’m hers, from now till the end of time. So you needn’t worry. I’ll never hurt her. Wouldn’t know where to begin. I belong to her.”

“Oh, wow. Oh man…” The boy’s stunned, worried tones were a jagged litany off to the rear somewhere. 

“Oh, this is so not good,” Red muttered at his side. 

_“Excuse_ me,” Mum came in after them, of course taking it in the worst way. “You’re _what?”_

Her shock was only the brief precursor to true rage. He could smell it coming.

Buffy, though, seemed ready to cut the whole bloody thing off at the pass. “Mine,” she answered flatly, and her tones left very little room for debate. “He’s mine, Mom. No one’s taking him from me, so we might as well give up fighting about it. It’s not gonna change…”

“I didn’t know you could do that,” the other chit, Cordelia broke in, unintentionally breaking into the tension of the moment. “Giles, did you know we could… I mean…”

“Oh, Lord…” the Watcher could be heard to mutter, still sounding a bit choked. “When Quentin finds out about this, I shall surely be sacked…”

/Oh, Christ./ He’d thought the prat had more stones than this.

It seemed that Cordelia bird had thought the same. “Giles!” the chit snapped impatiently, and slapped her hand down hard on the table to catch his attention. “Did you know?” 

The Watcher’s head jerked up in startlement. “Oh! I… I mean, one could never precisely predict… I mean to say, the relationship is so very distant that…”

“Oh, bollocks, mate,” Spike interrupted disdainfully. “It’s not as distant as all that. If you believe it is, you’ve been lied to, or you’ve been lying to yourself.”

The other man stared at him in slowly-dawning horror.

“At any rate, it works rather well, actually,” Spike finished easily, and went for a fag. With the way Buffy’s mum was glaring at him as if she hoped to be able to dust him with looks alone, he could certainly use one. 

Cordelia was rapidly digesting this revelation, it seemed. “Alright, so this is actual useful information. Like, maybe instead of all this crap where I chase Angel around and try to force him to stop this Angelus bullshit, why don’t I just get him to do this minion thing with me, since it sounds like he half wants it anyway? I mean, since he doesn’t have Darla anymore? And then, you know, I can control him, right? If once we have this bond-thing, I can just tell him what to do, then this whole stupid thing can be over…”

Spike choked rather impressively on his smoke, considering he didn’t need the oxygen part of the inhalation. “Bloody hell. Don’t try that! You’d be tying yourself forever to him while he’s prancin’ around playin’ soddin’ Angelus, without that poncey soul of his; which, fuck, you’ve no bleeding idea what you’d be getting yourself in for, there…”

“Isn’t that the point?” she demanded of him now, sounding exasperated.

/Christ./ “Yeah, but only in one way. In the meantime, though, you’d be bound to a creature who only wanted to drive you mad and harm everyone around you, but could never escape you! You’d be bound to a soddin’ sociopath!” 

Everyone around her flinched. 

“Maybe not a good day,” the bloke spoke up who never usually did. 

Pragmatic, that one.

The chit’s expression didn’t change a whit, however, remaining utterly determined. /Hell./ “And for a second thing, whatever he secretly wants, he’d never actually allow it, come to the sticking point! He may well want you to top him, but you’d have to get him to do it in the moment without his taking you instead, and that’s far too much of a soddin’ gamble!”

“It seems like it’d be worth the risk…” the chit maintained, because she was a head-case.

/Bloody fuck./ “It’s not,” he managed, somewhat patiently. “If it went the other way, he could control _you_. Make you think he had good reason for the things he does. Make it so that you could never kill him, no matter what happened. Make you believe everything and anything he said. Make it so you could never get over him, no matter what happens between you.” He shook his head solemnly and leant in to catch her eye, hoping like hell she heard him. “He’d be able to break your bitty, girlish heart for you, yeah?”

She flinched finally. It was an infinitesimal wince, held carefully under wraps. "I don't break easily," she snapped back… but he saw her pain nonetheless, beneath that proud exterior, and pushed his advantage. 

“It’s not worth the risk. Take it from someone who’s been stuck under his thumb, under a blood-leash and tied to him for a hundred-twenty years. You don’t want it; I _promise_ you that.”

The chit frowned pensively. “There’s no way to force him to swear to me, and not the other way around? No, like… I dunno, ceremony or something?”

“Oh, Christ.” These birds were going to send him right round the bloody twist. “It’s a bit of magick, yeah, but it’s not friggin’ mind-control! You can’t thrall the git, so no. You’ll not be able to force him. He’d have to want to come to you willingly!”

“Well… too bad,” the chit answered finally, and heaved a sigh. “It kind of sounded like a nice, easy answer to all this crap. Just, you know, put a leash on him, tell him he’s a bad dog, smack his nose with a newspaper every time he misbehaves, and we can move on with life, y’know? And then eventually we’d figure out some new spell to smoosh the stupid soul back into him in a way he’d accept, and voila. All better.”

If he didn’t get out of here, he was going to swallow his own tongue. These birds were all insane. That, or they were just the most madly optimistic creatures this side of Eden. “I need to have a smoke. I’ll be outside, Buffy.”

“Okay,” she answered softly, as if accurately reading his mood. “Don’t go far, though. We’ll probably need you for the whole… y’know. Bone-smashing extravaganza.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “So long as you promise not to splash any of that shite on me, innit? Last thing I need tonight is holy water burns.”

“Never happen.” And she beamed at him.

Hell. With her looking at him like that, he’d brave a thousand brassed off mothers. Though, luckily at this moment Joyce appeared too bloody thrown by the foregoing conversation, what with blood-leashes and sociopathic vampires, to have much to say about the voluntary collar he was wearing.

Still, he rather doubted they’d heard the end of that one, tonight.

***

“Buffy, I need you to tell me right now, what you mean by…”

“I can tell you all about it later, Mom. Right now we need to go do this thing with the Master’s skeleton. It’s important. So here.” Buffy handed her mom the keys to her apartment. “Go down Oak Park, take a right on Westminster, and a left on Juanita. My place is in the Shady Grove complex. Building 2721, number A2.”

Mom’s mouth opened and shut a couple of times. “Wh… When will you be back?” she asked finally. Her voice was a little croaky, like she’d swallowed a frog.

Buffy shrugged easily. “I dunno; I’ve never sledgehammered a skeleton to dust and buried it with holy water. Maybe a couple of hours…”

“Buffy, I’m honestly scared for you. This seems like a cult, or…”

Buffy patted her mother’s arm. “It’s not a cult. More like a Calling. It’s like…” And, feeling a stroke of inspiration, “Remember that show you loved so much, _The Highlander?_ With the guy who suddenly got all this energy and had to fight people, and was different from everybody, and it set him apart out of nowhere?”

Mom stared at her in clear amazement. “Buffy, that was a TV show. It was fantasy, not reality.”

“Well, that’s what this is like. It’s a part of me. It’s not something that I can change, and it’s not something that goes away. That’s what we’ve been trying to tell you. We live in a secret world, with Watchers and other beings who know about us and that we know about, but no one’s supposed to know. And we can’t just walk away, because it’s inside of us. So you can accept it about me, or you can hate me…”

Mom’s amazement turned to shock. “Buffy, I could _never_ hate you! You’re my baby!”

Buffy was not going to bend on this. She’d already been to, essentially, jail for this. She’d been through hell for this truth. She was not going to let anyone push her around anymore over what she was. “Then accept me. This is what I am. Take it or leave it, but I have to go right now and dismantle the bones of an ancient vampire, so he can’t come back again, because you have no idea how hard it was to dust him in the first place, and then I’ll come back and we’ll talk about my bond to another vampire who will literally stop at nothing, including dusting himself, to see to it that I survive my Calling. And then maybe we’ll get some sleep.”

She was heartened when Cordelia drew up to her shoulder at this last. “Or, you know, you could try to drag her to the car and send her back to the hospital…”

Mom threw Cordy a wounded, angry look. “That wasn’t my idea, young lady! And this isn’t your business…”

“She’s a Slayer in my town, helping keep me alive, so that makes her my business. Her vampire is a vampire in my town, so that makes him my business. You’re here in my town trying to mess up their vibe, which makes them a good team to fight the baddies, and maybe to take her away; which makes you my business. Probably what you’re used to is the adults’ way or the highway, but here in this town, the Slayer’s in charge. This is my town and I’m the Slayer, lady, so you either back up off of Buffy and Spike, or you can leave.”

Buffy winced internally at Cordelia’s usual, brusque outspokenness. Not that she wasn’t glad for the support, but…

“I beg your pardon! You can’t be more than a year older than my daughter, how dare you speak to me like…”

“I dare because I need her. I’m in charge here. You’re not.”

/Eeee./

“Now. I get that you’re worried about your kid, and honestly, I think that’s sweet, in a kinda Norman Rockwell way, since my parents barely notice me except when my mother offers me valium and my father asks me if I want new shoes because he feels guilty that he hasn’t seen me all week and he forgot to care. I’m glad for Buffy that she has a parent that gives a damn; and yeah, she should treasure that.”

/Okay, wow./ Cordelia’s parents sounded like a real prize.

“…But for damn sure she shouldn’t let you walk all over her because of it. She’s a Slayer and she needs to do the job. So you’re gonna have to find the happy medium there, you get me?”

Mom blinked, then softened a little. “Your mother offers you valium?” she asked, sounding horrified. 

“It’s her way of showing love,” Cordy answered with a shrug. “She can tell I’m stressed over Angel…”

“Ang…”

 _“My_ vampire. Who is currently rampaging around town killing people, because he lost his soul. It’s a long story. I seriously miss having him around being my emotional support, the way Spike is for Buffy. She’s super lucky to have him, just FYI. Anyway, I’m hoping they can help me to get him back. In the meantime, we have to stop him from trying to do something stupid to show off for me with his bad-boy ways, so if you’ll excuse me, we have to finish off this other bad-guy first so we can focus on him. So please. Go to the apartment. Put your feet up. Order a pizza. Watch TV. Buffy’ll be back soon and you can quiz her to your heart’s content till you realize that she’s still a total virgin…”

Buffy blushed harder than she’d ever blushed in her life. “Thanks a lot, Cordelia.”

“No charge. And then you can chill and let us move on with the program here.”

Mom was now looking at Cordelia with something like amused appreciation. “You’re a very blunt young woman.”

“I’m a leader. I don’t have time for sweet and gentle. Buffy?”

“Right.” Buffy shot her mom a look that was half-pleading, half firm decision. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

To her amazement, no further protests were heard from the parental set as the team headed out to go bone-smash.

***

Cordelia made a face as she patted bone-dust off of her now-ruined Luis Vuitton-style skirt. “Well, so much for that. Why did I wear this today, anyway?”

“I dunno. Seems like a waste for slaying.”

“Yeah. It just seemed like an occasion, you know? Dust the Master?”

“Sewers, vamp dust, bone dust…”

“Okay, okay, bad plan.” She sighed again and took in the night. Exhaled out the tension, enjoyed the stars. Man, it was nice to know they were down a baddie, though. “Heck of a fight, though, wasn’t it?”

Buffy seemed to be otherwise preoccupied, however. “Do…” She hesitated, and then her question came out in a low, insecure rush. “Do you really think I’m a goody-two-shoes?”

/Oh, jeez./ Rolling her eyes, Cordy shook her head and halted to turn to the other girl. She let the rest of the troops continue on their way, to allow them a little bit of privacy. Spike hovered briefly. She waved him on, and he nodded, a faint smile quirking up one corner of that (to be fair, devilish) mouth of his. He was well aware what his girl was worried about, that guy, and man, Buffy was in for a treat whenever they did get around to doing the nasty. “Okay, look. No, Buffy, you’re not. You’re just messed up. And you have a right to be, in the sense of you’ve totally lost, like, a year of your life.” Shaking her head, she resumed their trek, so that the girl had to hurry to catch up. “Heck. If I’d gone through that, I’d be screwed up too, you know? I’d question everything for a while, so you know, you just take your time. Deal with your trauma first.” She nodded with her chin, indicating a certain overly-peroxided, but otherwise kind of chic-in-his-own-way vamp just up ahead. /Really, leather never dies./ “He’s not going anywhere, you know? So get your head on straight. He’ll be waiting.” 

Everything in the other girl seemed to relax, beside her. 

“Besides; you have your mom to deal with right now.”

Relaxation gone. “Jeez, yeah… She is so flipping out right now. And she is definitely not okay with the whole ‘I’ve claimed him as my personal vampire’ thing…”

“Yeah, well, that’s all you. How you’re gonna navigate that with her… I don’t envy you that convo.” Cordy shrugged, then stopped again, so fast that Buffy almost caromed off of her. “Seriously, though. Don’t ever have sex till you’re ready, okay? It’s not worth it. Wait till you’re sure you won’t ruin it. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with being a virgin. Don’t let some dumb idiot guy make you think there is, because there isn’t. There wasn’t a year ago, for me, and there isn’t for you now, alright?”

Buffy nodded and looked away, as uncertain as Cordy herself had been once upon a time, maybe, oh, a couple of years back. Though, she of course had never let anyone _see_ it. /Jeez, Buffy; get yourself together./

“Are you sorry you…” the other girl began, and hesitated before she picked up again. “I mean, with Angelus?”

Cordy exhaled in exasperation and started off again. “I didn’t have sex with Angelus. I went to bed with Angel. And no. It was good while it lasted.” Shaking her head, she waited a beat to make sure it would sink in, then continued. “It also wasn’t the first time I’d done it, either, so there’s that. But, before you ask, I still wouldn’t’ve regretted it if it was.”

“Even though…” Buffy sounded so damn amazed.

“Yeah.” Cordy shrugged. “The during part was definitely worth it. The after…” She shrugged. “Was its own thing, and I’ll deal with it. But, you know. I’m never gonna let some guy make me feel ashamed of who I choose to sleep with, so whatever. He could say whatever he wanted, you know?”

“Wow,” Buffy answered, her voice a wondering murmur. “You’re so, like, powerful about this.”

Cordy turned her head to fix the other girl with a serious gaze. “Don’t ever let anyone call you a slut for being a woman, Buffy. You’re your own person with your own body. Own yourself. You get to do whatever you want with your real estate, and that’s no one’s call but your own, okay? Anyone who says anything different can go straight to hell.”

She was pretty sure that was the best advice she had ever or would ever give to anyone. She was definitely sure that the other girl walked taller as they returned to the high school that night.

***

It sucked saying goodnight to Spike that night with the full awareness that, with Mom around, there would be no snuggling him to sleep. But, then, with Mom nearby and the whole not being alone thing, maybe she’d still get some rest. Eventually.

Not till after the conversation to end all incredibly embarrassing mother-daughter conversations, first, of course. Ugh. 

Amazingly enough, Mom eased into it at first. She’d gotten them a pizza—combination, heavy on the meats—and they sat for a while and devoured it (or, rather, Mom watched a starving Buffy devour the rest of it, since she’d already eaten a couple of slices while waiting for them to get done Master-smashing). Then, after Buffy had washed down the Dominoes with a glass of Coke, they got down to business. “Okay, here’s the thing, Buffy. I love you, and I worry about you. And quite frankly, I don’t understand a single thing about your life right now…”

Buffy nodded at the low coffee table. “I know you don’t. And I don’t expect you to. And I’m trying to help you get it, but it’s hard, and I know it’s hard…”

“But…” Mom caught her hand, to catch her attention and her eye. It worked, and Buffy met her gaze, if reluctantly, and oh, man. The accusation was mostly gone there, but it had been replaced with serious freakout concern. “Baby, listen. You’re sixteen. Which, I know, to you feels like you’re all grown up, but you’re not. You’re still a… Alright, yes, I get it, you’re a young woman, but you’re a _very_ young woman, and I know you’re having a lot of feelings…”

Buffy was going to combust. /I can’t, with this./ She flung up a hand in self-defense, to call a halt to a lame attempt at revisiting a conversation they’d had when she’d been, what? Twelve? “Mom, I seriously promise you that it’s not like that.”

Mom shot her a scathing look. “Oh, _really_.”

/Okay, so being real here. Damn./ “Uh… Alright, so I have a massive crush on him. Hugely massive. Maybe more. And he says he loves me. Fine. But there’s… We’re not… It’s just not _like_ that, okay?” Did this have to be a ‘make Buffy’s face melt off’ conversation? Really?

Mom sighed, flung herself back against the couch, and closed her eyes in clear exasperation; like she thought Buffy was being deliberately obtuse. “I hear that nothing’s happening… yet. But Buffy, you have to understand. You’re playing with fire, here. You go… sleep with him at that motel. And cuddling with some… older man every night is just going to lead to… things you’re not ready for, especially when there are already feelings involved, and I just don’t want that for you, because even if there _are_ feelings involved, and even if you think you may be ready for…”

Buffy put her face in her hands and wondered if maybe she could just jump out of a window and run away. “Mom, _stop!_ I know I’m not, okay?”

Mom, thank god, actually did stop. “Well… I’m glad to hear that, at least. Because, think of it this way. He’s important to you, and he says you’re important to him, and you don’t want to ruin this relationship by… making it more complicated, when you might not be ready for it to be more complicated…”

“Omygod I _know_ that, Mom! Ugh!” She was going to die. She was going to disintegrate from embarrassment, or…

“But you see, this is why I worry about you going over there to…”

/Alright, this is enough./ “I only go over there,” Buffy snapped, lifting her head to look her mother in the eye, “because he’s trying to be good and stay away from me, or I’d just beg him to stay here and save his money. Because I don’t know how to sleep without him around. Like, those three days at your apartment made me so way jittery, even though you were there and I wasn’t alone, because it drove me nuts knowing he was so far away. I could sleep at the warehouse, because I knew he was close by, to protect me if anyone came to hurt me, or take me away again…”

Mom’s face promptly crumpled, and she got that expression like she needed a gonzo glass of wine. “Oh, Buffy…” she whispered. “God, I’m so sorry about all that. I am, you know I am. But don’t you understand how it makes me feel, as a mother, to see a man who looks like he’s close to thirty, sleeping with—I know, just sleeping, but still—with my teenage daughter?”

“I do, Mom; but right now, seriously? That’s _all_ it is. He’s like…” Did she not _get_ it? “He’s like a very big Mr. Gordo, since Mr. Gordo really doesn’t do it for me anymore. He can protect me, and the pig can’t.” /RIP Mr. Gordo. You were a good bed-companion for most of my life, but you have seriously been replaced./ “He’s room-temperature, and he’s aces with the snuggles, and he wouldn’t do anything to hurt me if someone _paid_ him…”

“Buffy, he’s a grown man, and you’re…”

/Not, yeah, I _get_ it, ohmygod…/ 

Without Cordelia’s advice from earlier, she might have backed down in confusion, or felt shame for what she needed, but in this moment she didn’t. And for the first time, she actually felt ready to say so. /Yeah, Mom, sometimes even though the very thought freaks me out, I think I might just… I mean, after slaying, and everything, I think of just jumping on him and making out with him and… And the reason I haven’t is because I have no idea where that would lead or if I’d be cool with that, but someday I might be. And if I am, I am so not going to let you make me feel bad about it, because it won’t be about _you_ , then! It’ll be about him and me!/

Thus, when she interrupted, it was with purpose. “Look, Mom; I get it. I _really_ do. But, okay. If I did sleep with Spike, I wouldn’t regret it. My body is my body. If I decided to give it to him, it would still be mine in the morning, and I’d be happy with my choice.” While her mother was still staring at her in apparent horror, Buffy patted her knee. “But you can relax. Like I said, I don’t think I’m ready for that yet. I mean, yeah, he’s insanely hot, and sometimes when he does that thing with his tongue I want to jump on him, but then I’m like, ‘and then what?’ and I freak and my brain runs the other direction, so no. I don’t think it’s gonna happen anytime soon. You can chill.”

Mom put her face in her hand and groaned. “Oh, God,” she muttered, sounding undone.

“Anyway, the late movie tonight looks lame, and I’m beat. Do you wanna just crash? Because I don’t know about you, but I’m kind of over this incredibly embarrassing conversation.”

One Summers eye peeped out through the gap between two fingers. “God, yes. This was the worst conversation ever.”

Feeling a sudden kinship with her mother, Buffy smirked and bumped Mom’s shoulder with her own. “Good. The couch pulls out. I’m gonna go sleep… in my bed here. I hear it’s nice.”

The hand dropped. Her mother stared for a second. The moment hung on a dime, and then… “Young lady, you are so grounded.”

“Uhuh. ‘Night, Mom.”

***

Joyce finally consented to hie her interfering arse back to the Valley; dependent, apparently, on Buffy’s solemn promise to check in and let her mother know, in detail, if she was suddenly feeling the urge to lob her virginity wholesale in Spike’s direction, or if it looked like she was about to be killed at any given moment. Spike found the first condition (ranted in his direction in blunt irritation, via a very vexed Slayer) thoroughly fucking amusing, to be frank. The second, realistically, was ridiculous, and would no doubt be ignored, since the chit was in danger of death about every thirty bloody seconds in this sodding town.

Things went more or less back to normal; or whatever passed for normal in this bloody burgh. They hunted about for Angelus, attempting to catch him before he could off another chit to use for one of his artistic endeavours. Being as those were meant to keep Cordelia’s attention on him, or perhaps to lure her in, they were better left unfinished. No telling what might happen should Peaches get that poor, confused twig into bed with him again. She was already waffling enough to be considering trying to bond the sonofabitch, which was bloody well madness. 

They also kept a round-the-bloody-clock watch on the witchy teacher bird, who was still working away at her computer, attempting to reconstruct the curse that had been put on his grandsire once upon a time. Though, as time got on, she sounded as if she was attempting to put her own spin on the thing. She continually muttered things as she tapped away, about the difference between a curse and a _geas_. She also had the young chit, Willow, roped into the endeavour, as a sort of apprentice, and seemed to be harnessing Red’s natural abilities. 

They were going along at a furious pace, now that the witch didn’t have a disapproving relative looking over her shoulder, and better yet, she was being utterly straightforward with the bunch about her progress, her setbacks, and that. “The dynamics of the difference are subtle, but they’re there, is the thing,” the woman informed them all once, in one of those interminable ‘Scooby meetings’ of theirs. “A curse is, essentially an appeal or prayer for misfortune to fall upon someone. To damn someone, to afflict someone with bad luck. There’s no real escaping a curse, and it’s meant to torment that person. You don’t _want_ a curse. On the other hand, _geasa_ are more idiosyncratic. They’re… a kind of a taboo made under obligation. A prohibition, or an injunction against certain actions. Like being under a vow. Which… makes it different, even if the vow isn’t taken voluntarily. Which they usually weren’t, since the consequences for breaking _geasa_ were just as severe...”

“But, I mean, just a prohibition, for a guy like Angelus…” The boy interrupted.

The Watcher held up a hand. “Wait, Xander. This is a fascinating point of order.”

“Thank you, Rupert. The fact of the matter is, in a way, _geasa_ are a lot like curses, in that if you break the taboo, if you go against the spell prohibiting an action, you will suffer pain or death—or dishonour, but that probably wouldn’t be strong enough in this case—and… here’s the big difference, observing your _geas_ brings you power. Cumulative power. So they can be taken on voluntarily. And as long as you only have one _geas_ , or the multiple ones you have on you don’t conflict, you’re fine.” The witch paused briefly. “Otherwise, you could be in quite the catch22 situation, but since I’m thinking of imposing only a couple of very closely interrelated _geasa_ here, I don’t see that happening.”

Cordelia pulled a face. “Whatever. As long as it works, and I don’t have to worry about him losing the stupid soul every time we do the nasty. Is it a tough spell to create?”

The bird looked a bit uncertain. “It’s… intricate, but not impossible.”

“Awesome. Anything that’s faster than trying to recreate something you have no blueprint for sounds great. Let’s do it. And for the record,” she insisted, with a pointed glare first at her Watcher, then the rest of the room, “I want it to be known that I understand that you were working under the pressure of two different conflicting groups pulling at you, before. I’m over being mad about it. You didn’t know enough to tell me what I needed to know, but you still tried to warn me, as well as you could, without outing yourself. I get that. And I appreciate it. I definitely appreciate that you helped me to get Angel out of vampire prison.” Her eyes flickered over to the Watcher. “I’m sure at some point here everyone else will get over themselves.”

“I… Thank you, Cordelia.”

Watcher looked more than a little thoughtful at this interpretation.

The guard-detail over the bird’s computer lab went on apace. Spike was beginning to feel like a bit of a collared hound. And in the interim, he was, of course, persona non grata with the other vampires in town, many of whom were chaff left over from the assault on Nest. Any remaining Aurelians, those who had fled after watching in horror as he and the Slayers had come in guns figuratively blazing to take out the Master of the bloody Universe, had apparently spread the word far and wide as to his infamy, for now even vamps who’d had not a sodding thing to do with his family were treating him like a mad pariah. 

Fair enough, he supposed, and in a way, sort of fun. To have other vamps—and not a few extraneous demons of other sorts—look at him like he was an unpredictable viper about to strike with no provocation at any given moment was rather entertaining in its own right. And, he could understand their reasoning. If he was willing to take out almost the entirety of his own blood family, including his ultimate sire, while fighting on the side of the _Slayers_ , of all bloody things, then no one fucking knew what he might do next, wasn’t it?

Some demons had been known to suck up to Slayers, and-or their Council prats, in the past, did it serve their interests. Payoffs for information and the like, to save their own skins. A vampire, though, working with and for Slayers, direct? Fighting at their sides against their own Lineage? 

Fucking unheard-of, and if he wasn’t already famous, he sure the bloody hell was now. /I’m sodding notorious./

It was really rather amusing, if in a bloody perverse way.

/Christ, I’m fucked, though./ He could never re-enter demon society. Not on any level. He was ruint. /Throw your lot in with the enemy, and become the enemy./

Made for a certain devil-may-care attitude when it came to assisting the chits with slaying misbegotten, wet-behind-the-ears fledges of an evening, that.

Didn’t change his attitude when it came to Angelus’ machinations, however. /Christ, you’re a predictable fucking sod, you sad old man./ 

The git really had a hardon for this Slayer of his. It seemed there was a newscast about his ‘art’ about every third bleeding night, anymore; some great, ongoing taunt he had set to drive the poor chit barmy. Each time, it was a girl who at least somewhat resembled the brunette Slayer, strung up in some picturesque way, wearing her knickers and little else, having clearly been raped before being otherwise brutalized. One had been sodomized, the message left behind with her, ‘do you know what I like?’

The fucking ridiculous—and honestly, rather sad—thing about this mission his grandsire seemed to have taken on, to terrorize the town and its female complement, was that Angelus was quite clearly, at least to Spike’s jaded eyes, trying to angle for another shot at the chit’s bed. He wanted her to shag him again, and he wanted her to join him. /But just how the fuck does he think doing this sort of thing is going to get a Slayer to shag his worthless arse is beyond me./

Also, hilariously, the prat thought he was tops in this scenario. He appeared to have utterly missed Dru’s prognostications (a common enough event, in Spike’s experience). At any rate, her mythology-based murmurs had apparently flown directly over his foofy head. Understandable, since he’d had a wool-merchant’s education. A bone of contention between himself and ol’ Peaches, back in the early days, that. Angelus had ridden him hard about being a swotty schoolboy, but the William-who-had-been had rather wondered if Liam had been made somewhat insecure by the introduction of such a learn’ed man to their number. 

/Don’t know that you’re the one in the story needs to be rescued, innit, Peaches? That the Slayer’s the soddin’ action-figure, and the gender roles have been reversed?/ Though, granted, considering it was a Greek myth, no one could really say what Orpheus’ original motivations might have been. After all, he’d spent a bit of time with the maenads, himself. As a bacchant, he might have had any number of liaisons of his own with Dionysos, who was not known to be exactly picky when it came to bedmates. /Bit swishy, that one./

The weeks rolled on with no resolution to the business. Angelus went on taunting his Slayer. Spike got no nearer to Dru, though as to the other Slayer...

They were definitely getting closer. Which was quite the puzzle. /Christ, what the bloody hell am I doing, and how am I meant to manage this?/ 

The link was making it bleeding difficult on him, for one. Buffy was like a limpet, of late. He tried to be somewhat avuncular; to put a bit of distance between them, as it were—but that only led to her looking at him with sad eyes as if she were wondering did she do something wrong. Which… bloody hell. He couldn’t stand to see her hurting, and he folded like a house of bloody cards every time. 

/I’m a fucking wet milksop when it comes to her, ain’t I? Hell./

Thing was, she needed him. First of bloody all, she was becoming attached to this lot. Angelus had caught wind that the computer bird was trying to figure out a spell for him, it seemed. They’d had to fight him off her once already, and Buffy had had to punch him in his great ugly face right as he’d been about to shove the bint's head right into her sodding computer. They’d fought him off well enough, between them, and got the bird medical attention for the knock she’d gotten over the skull (Spike was still reveling over the fact that the old sod hadn’t been able to command him during the fight, and him the closest senior relative who wasn’t mad). Buffy’s defence of him had been lovely, of course; a nice string of, “Because he belongs to _me_ , you jerk,” and that sort of thing. 

Angelus’ standard insults, meant to throw off a young girl, though, hadn’t helped the bloody situation. As per the soddin’ usual. 

Far worse, of course, had been what he’d tried to do _to_ her. 

Christ, Spike hated the old bastard. Moreso with every passing day.

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GAH! Now I'm seriously dying to post the next bit. 


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